Chaos Under Fire
by Enziet
Summary: The chaos of Liberty City is challenged by a familiar stranger. Contained within are the events following Grand Theft Auto III.
1. Liberty in Chaos

_Chapter 1: Liberty in Chaos_

Where is the order? The stability of the past, the defined territorial boundaries; all replaced by chaos. Liberty is in chaos. The whole city is up for grabs, and no one seems willing to sit idly on the sidelines and watch the opportunity pass by. Order left Liberty when the head of the Leone Family, Salvatore Leone, was killed as he left a family friendly business, _Sex Club Seven_. Since then, no one has had secure control over the city. The Columbian Cartel managed a short reign as the head of Liberty, but that reign ended when the main Columbian contender, Catalina, was killed when her helicopter was shot down over Cochrane Dam. Shortly after, the Columbian mansion was raided by D-Ice and his band of Red Jacks, crumbling any solid foothold the Columbians had maintained in Liberty. This feat built D-Ice a great amount of confidence and boosted the moral of his Red Jacks; who now have a mansion in the cedar ridge area as their base of operations for prostitution, extortion, and drugs. The Red Jacks are now the lead public supplier of the ever popular street drug "Spank".

The former champion of Liberty, the Leone family, is now headed up by Salvatore's only son, Joey. The family maintains strong control of Saint Marks, although the area is being contested by the Suttemi brothers and their band of followers. The strife has not broken into a street war yet, however, and Portland remains relatively free from gang violence. Chinatown is still controlled by the triads, but the have lost considerable power since the Turtle Head Fishing Co., their main front business, was destroyed. El Burro and his gang, the Diablos, are only a memory on the minds of the Yardies, the Caribbean gang who liberated upper Portland's streets from the Diablos presence. The Yardies now not only control up-town Staunton Island, but also have spank dealers on the streets of Portland. King Courtney's Yardies is now the only gang on Staunton Island, as the state gaming commission seized Kenji's casino after his death, the Yakuzas no longer have a presence in Liberty.

The night was cold and damp, and that pleased 8-Ball, it suited his work. He was driving through Portland's red light district on his way to the west Portland L-train station. The streets were practically devoid of traffic, save the whores and pimps outside the sex clubs and on the corners. 8-Ball smiled as he passed Sex Club Seven; finally, after months of fitting cars with tiny explosives, he has a chance to put his real talents to work again. And after, he would stop into Sex Club Seven and show the ladies that he hasn't lost his groove in all the turmoil of the city's crime underworld. He passed Mr. Wong's Launderette and slowed a bit, he was almost there. He flexed his fingers over the steering wheel, thinking how nice it is to once again be able to use his hands after being injured for what seemed like forever, but was in actuality only a few months. Spotting the station up ahead, 8-Ball eased his _Mule_ off the road to the right and shut off his lights. He stopped the truck underneath the elevated tracks and sat there, analyzing the situation.

Luigi Goterelli, owner of Sex Club Seven, had called 8-Ball with a favor to ask for Joey Leone. Joey had found out that one of the Suttemi brothers, Cole Suttemi, would be meeting an informant on the Portland L-train the next day; and wanted to kill two birds with one stone, or rather, one bomb. 8-Ball had jumped at the opportunity, and said that he knew what to do. He planned to ride the L-train tonight, and leave a remote detonated bomb on the train. Then it was simple, the L-train can easily be followed in a car, when Cole Suttemi and the informant are aboard, detonate the bomb.

8-Ball chucked at his prowess, what would take ten minutes for him tonight would result in fiery chaos in downtown Portland tomorrow and may end up re-kindling the gang wars in all of Liberty City. The station was dark, the only person around was a man walking towards Callahan Bridge, away from the L-train station. 8-Ball killed the motor of his truck and hopped out, checking his watch; 1:22 in the morning. Eight minutes to grab his stuff and catch the train, ten to plant the bomb, he would be in Luigi's by two, no doubt. He walked around to the back of the truck, flung open the door, and then climbed inside. He pulled out a pocket flashlight, flicked it on and found his bomb, which was concealed within a briefcase. He snatched it up and jumped out onto the wet grass, pulling the door shut behind him.

"Hey man, got a spare dollar?" 8-Ball whirled around at the voice, which was slurred and raspy. He peered into the darkness, and saw a figure leaning against a track support. Squinting, 8-Ball recognized the man, "Damn Chico, whach'you doing hanging down here for? Sell your spank some place else, damn!"

"Spank?" Came the reply, "there's no spank left in Portland man, I'm out of a job. Got some change or what?"

"Hell no", 8-Ball barked, "Head out to Shoreside Vale man, I hear there's tons of shit to move there."

"The Vale?" Chico said, "nah man, them Jacks ain't too kind to family dealers nowadays. Say, y'think you could get the family to help me out a bit?"

"Damn foo'! Who the hell do you think I am, Goterelli? I can't just ask Joey to scrape you outta the gutter! No get outta here, I got work to do." With that, 8-Ball started to walk towards the station, turning his back on Chico.

"Work?" Chico called, "what is there for you to do in Liberty right now? I don't think there are any tankers for you to blow up anymore!"

8-Ball didn't answer, just trotted up the metal staircase to the station, each step making a wet, clanging sound. Chico watched him go from the shadows, eyeing the briefcase, and then disappeared into the night.

The L-train screeched to a halt and 8-Ball waited for the doors to open, when they did, he slipped inside and looked about. The only other passenger was an old, unkempt man sleeping under a blanket of newspapers. That pleased 8-Ball, it was possible for him to be on and off the train without witness, if the old man didn't wake up. The doors beeped and scraped shut, and the train started moving. 8-Ball faltered, then regained his balance and sat down at the back of the train. He popped open the briefcase and punched a series of numbers on a keypad, and a light on the bomb's display changed from red to green, bomb armed. 8-Ball put pressure on a release button above the keypad causing the keypad to be ejected from the bombs casing. He shoved it into his jacket pocket, closed the briefcase, and then looked out the window.

He saw below him the Portland docks, where he and an accomplice has blown up an entire tanker filled with Columbian spank dealers. He saw that that particular dock was still out of service. He sat for a moment, trying to remember his accomplice's name; he couldn't, wondering if he had ever learned it in the first place. He didn't think so, which was surprising to him because they had know each other for a few months. He wondered why he hadn't noticed this earlier, but with everything going on in his life at that time, he forgave himself. He remembered how they met, in the meal hall in prison, the only unoccupied seat was across from whoever this guy was, and they were the only two people at the table who spoke English. Naturally, they stuck up conversation, but if he remembered correctly, it seemed to 8-Ball that he did most of the talking. He discovered that the stranger was being transferred to the same federal prison as him, and didn't see him again until the transfer a week later.

8-Ball remembered the transfer clearly; it was a rainy evening and thunder rolled as they were herded into the transfer bus. They had been driving for about a half-hour when the bus screeched to a halt. He had looked at the stranger, sitting across from him, seemingly ignoring the shouting voices coming from outside. Suddenly, the doors swing open and a man in cowboy boots and matching hat hopped in, grabbed an old man, who 8-Ball had just then noticed, and pulled him out. 8-Ball and the stranger had knocked out the cop inside the bus and hopped out the back just in time to see the old man being shoved into a black _Patriot_. As soon as he was in, the hummer screeched away. They were on Callahan Bridge, on their way to Portland when they had been stopped and sprung. An abandoned coup sat nearby, and before any of the other escapees noticed it, he beckoned to the stranger to get in. the stranger got in the driver's seat, and he had gotten in the back. He told the stranger to drive, directing him to an old hideout of his. When they had barley made it off the bridge and into Portland, there was a tremendous explosion. The mid-section of Callahan Bridge had just been blown to bits, along with the cops and other escaped inmates, 8-Ball presumed.

When they reached the hideout they exchanged their orange prison jump suits for street clothes and 8-Ball took the stranger to meet Luigi at his club. After that, he seemed to be around quite a bit, doing favors for the family. They had blown up the tanker the day before Salvatore was killed, and Liberty was cast into chaos. Even then, however, the stranger came into his bomb shops around the city occasionally. Come to think of it, he hadn't seen the stranger around lately, and wondered if he got himself killed.

The old man started coughing and that broke 8-Ball's daydreaming, he looked over to where the man lay. He seemed to be in quite a serious coughing fit for about forty-five seconds, then he leaned his head over the seat and without opening his eyes he spat a mouthful of yellow bile onto the isle. Then he pulled his head back onto the seat and was once more silent.

'Sickening', thought 8-Ball, truly disgusted. The L-train was slowing to a stop as it approached the South Portland station. When the train stopped, the doors slide open and waited for more passengers to get on. 8-Ball waited as well, when no additional passengers got on, the doors beeped and closed once more. When the train was moving again, 8-Ball got up and moved to the center of the car. He popped open the back of a Maibatsu Monstrosity ad and slid the briefcase in. He then snapped the back panel back on the ad and sat down, waiting to arrive back at the west Portland station.

The old man made a grunting noise and turned over in his sleep, he was now facing the isle. 8-Ball checked his watch, 1:47 a.m.; he might be a little late getting to Luigi's tonight, he thought. He stared into the face of the sleeping old man across the isle from him and found himself feeling a little pity for him. All the man did, as far as he could tell, was ride the L-train at night and panhandle for booze during the day. What an existence, 8-Ball thought, the world passing you by as you submerge yourself into a sea of oblivion and quick solutions. 'Had this man made the wrong decisions in life?' 8-Ball wondered. No, that was not possible, he concluded, as every decision that someone makes is in some way good; otherwise, they would have not made the decision in the first place. The only way the course of action that this man had taken in life could be considered wrong is when they are perceived in relation to society. On the other hand, can anyone exist independently from society, no matter how hard they try?

8-Ball's head gave a little involuntary shake, he blinked, as he was literally making his head spin thinking about this man. He heard the screeching of the train's brakes, signaling the arrival at the west Portland station. Standing up, 8-Ball grabbed onto the bar that ran over the row of seats, and waited to get off. He glanced once more at the old man, 'screw him', he thought, 'the man can spend his nights filling the L-train's isle with bile for all I care'.

The train screeched to a stop and the doors slid open, allowing 8-Ball to step out into the cold night. He was greeted with a blast of cold wind as soon as he was out of the train and on the platform. Shivering, 8-Ball pulled his jacket zipper all the way up and shoved his hands in his pockets. There was a beeping noise from behind him and the train's doors closed, he turned and watched the train race off into the night, carrying his bomb that had the power to blow open a military tank. He checked his watch once more, seven minutes to two; 'good', thought 8-Ball, 'time for some relaxation at Luigi's'. With that, he started down the staircase on his way back to his _Mule_. He reached the bottom and turned towards the truck, stopping dead in his tracks.

There was a beige _Sentinel_ parked in front of the truck, 8-Ball could make out two figures inside the car, one was Isaac, errand boy for the Suttemi brothers, and the passenger was Chico. 'Not good', thought 8-Ball, feeling his stomach turning, 'run, just get the hell out of here!' With that thought he turned on his heel and started sprinting away from the car, towards the Callahan Bridge.

"Shit there he is!" Chico's voice shouted from behind 8-Ball. The sound of car doors opening followed the shout; 8-Ball was being hunted like game. He was in fairly good shape, however, and he leaned forward, yearning to get every ounce of speed out of his legs. As he ran, 8-Ball wondered why Chico was tangled up with the Suttemi brothers. The family wasn't helping him out anymore, so he probably thought he would be better off with the Suttemi brothers. 'Damn you Chico and damn your weak sense of loyalty!' 8-Ball cursed as he turned left into Chinatown. A gunshot rang out through the night, and 8-Ball heard the whizzing as the bullet soared past him and into a brick wall. That was it, 8-Ball put every bit of energy he had into eluding his pursuers. He saw the Chinatown fish market up ahead, perfect; he could lose them in there. He shoved a woman out of the way and heard her cursing him as he ran, then he heard her scream, he assumed that she had once again been shoved, this time by men with guns.

Almost at the fish market, hope welled up in 8-Ball's chest; he would lose them in there for sure. He darted across the street and in-between some parked cars, startling a prostitute as he ran past. He heard another gunshot, and just before he reached the entrance to the fish market, felt the searing kiss of hot lead in his back.


	2. The Stranger Returns

_Chapter 2: The Stranger Returns_

Traffic around Francis International Airport is always hectic, that's why Will liked taking fares there. People are glad to be off the planes, and anxious to be away from the hustle and bustle of the airport as soon as possible. Whoever takes people away from the airport to wherever they are going usually earns their gratitude, and that means a big tip for cabbies.

Will cruised slowly along the front of the terminal, searching for a juicy looking fare. He remembered one fare he got at that exact spot not too long ago; it was quite a unique fare. He was crawling along, as he is doing now, looking for someone to pick up when a lone man caught his eye. The man was dressed like a cowboy; he had on boots, a hat, and a string neck-tie, the whole deal. Will had slowed his taxi to a stop and waited to see if the man would get in, he did. He was a fairly old man with grey hair and a bushy mustache; his suntanned skin gave Will the impression that he was from the south somewhere. When he had asked 'where to?' the man's reply came in a heavy southern accent, confirming Will's suspicion that he was a southerner, 'Love Media Headquarters, west Staunton'. 'West Staunton', Will had said, and they were off. All through the ride, Will remembered, the man had yakked on and on about all the prime real-estate opportunities in Liberty City and how much he hated the Pan-Lantic construction company. The man had then volunteered the reason why he had come to Liberty City; he was from Vice City and had come to Liberty to greet an 'old friend' who had acquired a 'special package' that was rightfully his. None of this had made any sense to Will, so he had kept his eyes on the road. When they had reached the Love Media headquarters, the man had leaned over the seat and said that he was just going in to pick a couple things up, and asked Will to wait for his return. Will had said he would, and the man was only in the building for a minute or two before emerging with another man and an object that he had put under his coat. When they had both gotten into the cab, the man had said 'back to the airport, shooter,' so Will turned the cab around and headed back to Shoreside Vale. Throughout the trip back to the airport the cowboy and the man he had picked up at Love Media were deep in conversation, Will hadn't been too interested in what they were saying, but had thought that he recognized the second man's voice from the radio or something. When they had returned to the airport, the cowboy slapped three hundred dollars in Will's hand and said, 'keep the change, partner.' Then he had pulled the second man out of the cab and into the terminal, leaving Will sitting stunned in his cab.

A man pulling a trolley overloaded with luggage was crossing the street heading towards the terminal, so Will stopped reminiscing and eased on the brakes to let him cross. When the man was about halfway across the street, his luggage began to lean to the left. Before he was too much further, the towering stack of suitcases toppled over onto the street, blocking traffic in both directions. There was a flurry of honking horns and angry shouting as the man sheepishly re-stacked his trolley and continued across the street. When he was completely across traffic resumed and Will once again started looking for a fare. He had almost reached the subway station and was about to turn around when a man exited the terminal from the very last door and strolled out to the sidewalk. He was very ordinary looking, wearing a black leather jacket and green cargo pants; but his face had a very stern look to it, a look that reeked of confidence. Will pulled his cab over and waited to see if the man needed a ride. Sure enough, the man sauntered over to the cab and got in the back seat.

"Where to, pal?" Will asked.

"793 East Staunton Expressway", came the reply.

"You got it", Will said as he pulled a U-turn and headed towards the Shoreside life bridge. Will had been driving a cab for eight years, and in that time he learned what type of people are conversationalists and what type of people are not— this man was _not_ a conversationalist. So, Will drove silently watching the road and traffic. The lift bridge was raised when they were crossing, so they had to wait for it to close. Will looked down onto the river and saw a cargo ship slide by on its way out to sea. As the bridge was lowering, Will glanced in his rear-view mirror at his passenger, who was sitting upright facing straight ahead, but his eyes were looking slightly to the right. Will turned his gaze to the lowering bridge and wondered what his passenger could be doing at 793 East Staunton Expressway. He had driven past it often, multiple times a day on some days, but he had never delivered a fare there. From the expressway it simply looked like a square courtyard with walls, almost like a prison, or a military camp. 'Whatever it is', Will thought, 'I'll soon find out'.

His speculation was interrupted as the bridge finished lowering and traffic could continue across the bridge. When they were off the bridge, Will turned left and headed straight through downtown Staunton Island, past city hall and onto the south Staunton causeway. From there it was easy; the causeway turns into the East Staunton Expressway. As they were merging onto the expressway, they drove past the newly built International Relations building. Will remembered reading in the papers that a couple corpses had been found near the top of the building near the end of the construction. He shuddered at the thought, no way would he spend a night in that building.

A few minutes later, Will slowed the taxi and flicked on his right blinker, then made the turn into the driveway of 793 East Staunton Expressway. The driveway led to a small plaza within the walls of the complex. The plaza took up about half of the space enclosed by walls, and was mainly empty, save for some crates that leaned against a stone building. An iron gate stretched from the buildings corner to the far wall, neatly separating the accessible part of the complex from the inaccessible part.

Will stopped in front of the gate and checked his display, "here we are pal, that's twenty-one bucks".

His passenger counted out a wad of bills and handed them to Will wordlessly, then opened the door and slid out of the cab. Will counted the money, twenty-one dollars, 'nice tip pal', he thought sarcastically. Then he roared off to search for fares around Liberty Memorial Coliseum.

The man watched the taxi leave, then walked over to the gate's keypad and punched in a memorized code sequence. The gate rattled and began to scrape open, when there was enough room for the man to walk through, he did so. When he had barely made ten paces, he heard the unmistakable sound of a cocking shotgun from behind him, followed by a single word, "Identify!"

The man stifled a smile and turned to meet his assailant.

"He-e-ey buddy! How the fuck ya been?" said the assailant.

"Just fine, Phil," the man smiled, "fight any wars lately?"

"Ahh," Phil lowered the shotgun, "everything's politics these days kid, talking! Since when was anything solved by talking? You get that Mayor O'Donovan? He wants to hold sessions with todays "mislead" youth to keep them outta gang trouble! You know what I say? Throw the commie out and let the kids pump each other full'a lead! That'll cut down on unemployment rates, guarantee it!"

"You always did make the most sense, Phil," the man said.

"Damn straight," Phil returned, "now, you want a drink?"

"Whatt'a ya got?"

"A good old fashioned drink, _Boomshine_! I brewed and drank it while in the service, damn strong stuff. Want some?"

"Sure, Phil."

"Ha ha haaah! Come on in kid, I'll get'cha fixed right up!" Phil started towards the building and beckoned the man to follow with the shotgun. As they walked, the gate began to shut behind them.

When they were inside the building, which was an old army barracks, it was almost pitch black, as there were neither windows nor any lights on. Phil set his shotgun on a table near the door, and then counted out six paces towards the center of the building. When he judged himself to be in the correct spot, he reached up and pulled a chain that was hanging from the ceiling, which turned on the attached light bulb. The man followed Phil into the room and surveyed his surroundings. He had never been inside any building in Phil's facility, but he had been there many times to pick up armaments. The barracks was simple enough; a couple of cots in one corner, opposite the cots were two jeeps. Both jeeps were covered in a green canvas covering; only their headlights were showing. In front of the jeeps sat three huge plastic barrels with multiple tubes inserted into their tops, connecting them with five or six smaller barrels. The concrete walls were painted an off-white colour, and were very dirty. Beyond the barrels was a single bathroom stall and sink with mirror. The smell of urine, gasoline, and alcohol infiltrated the man's nostrils, causing him to grimace. Phil had walked over to the barrels as the man was looking the place over, and was now dipping into one of the bigger barrels with a ladle. He filled two plastic cups with the liquid that was inside the barrel and called the man over, "come on, kid. Come over here and take a seat."

The man walked over and sat on the wooden bench that Phil was pointing at, when he was seated, Phil handed him one of the cups and sat himself down on an empty, overturned small barrel. "Drive that into ya," he said.

"What is it again?" the man was looking at it skeptically. It was indistinguishable from gasoline, apart from the smell, which was a combination of gas, alcohol, and paint.

Phil took a large gulp from his cup and wiped his mouth with his sleeve, "Boomshine, it goes down a little sharp, but it evens out in yer gut."

The man eyed the drink a second longer, then slowly raised the cup to his lips and tipped it, allowing some of the liquid to seep into his mouth. Almost immediately he spat it onto the floor.

"Bluh!" the man cried as he wiped his mouth with his sleeve, "Christ Phil, I can't feel the inside of my mouth!"

Phil was in hysterics, "Bwaahahaah! Young'uns never could get 'er down!" Suddenly, Phil's expression turned serious, "but kid, listen, I didn't call you here to watch you choke on my drink. Some serious shit's been going down, and it's about to get a whole lot more messed up."

"Yeah?" the man asked, "like what?"

"You know the Suttemi brothers?"

"Heard of 'em, why?"

"Well, they ain't brothers no more, one of 'em got wasted. Louie, the surviving brother, blamed the Leone family and has gone to war with them. So now, a street war is going on in Portland between the Leone family and the Suttemi brother, its bloody out there man."

"Leone," the man said, remembering his past involvement with the family.

"Yeah," Phil continued, "and on top of it all, the violence in Portland has gotten D-Ice's blood boiling for some action. So, he and his Red Jacks are invading Yardie territory right here on Staunton! King Courtney ain't took too kindly to the gangsters coming across from the Vale, if y'know what I mean. So presently, there's a war over in Portland _and_ a war here on Staunton."

The man sat back, considering all this.

"The cherry on top," Phil said, "is that your pal 8-Ball was gunned down in Chinatown four days ago and is laid up in Sweeney General."

"8-Ball?" the man sat bolt upright at the name, "by triads?"

"I dunno kid, thought you might like to pay him a visit."

"You bet I would," the man said, setting his drink on the bench and standing up, "let me at the bastard that messed with 8-Ball, I'll choke his life out! You coming?"

"Now son," Phil replied, "normally I would jump at an opportunity to head into battle, but I got some stuff to take care of here."

"Fine, but can I take your car? I don't have the cash for a taxi."

"Sure kid, anything," Phil said as he killed his drink, dropped the cup and fished a set of keys out of his breast pocket; he tossed them to the man, "its right outside."

"Thanks," the man said, and rushed outside.

Sandy was flustered; her first week on the job and the hospital was proving to be the busiest it had been in months. The first couple days had been okay, but the last three had been anarchic; patients coming in by the dozens with severe head wounds, gunshot wounds, and stab wounds. The hospital manager had put Sandy on front desk, so she had to make sure that every single patient that entered and exited the hospital was recorded. In addition, it was Sandy's job to direct all the worried friends and relatives to their injured loved one's bed. Sweeney general had 812 beds, and 503 had filled in the last three days, making the total number of available beds less that a hundred. At this rate, they would have to start shipping patients over to Carson general on Staunton by tomorrow, but from what Sandy had heard, that hospital was filling up pretty quick as well. 'At least its Friday,' Sandy thought as she double checked some records, 'I've got a lot of relaxation to do this weekend.' She looked up from the records when a dark figure loomed over the desk, "Can I help you?" she asked.

"I'm looking for a gunshot victim," the man at the desk answered, "only name I know is 8-Ball."

"Eight Ball?" Sandy repeated, "two names or one?"

"Try one."

Sandy typed the name into a computer and waited for results. She looked up at the man, he was of average height, but had a dark, almost mysterious aura about him that made him seem taller than he really was. He looked down on her, their eyes met; just then the computer finished its search and Sandy quickly shifted her gaze down to the screen. "Mr. Eight Ball, no last name given; admitted at 2:46 Tuesday morning, room 311 south wing. He didn't have the proper identification, so he is under investigation by the police."

"South wing?" the man asked.

Sandy pointed to the left at a set of elevators, "that way, sir."

The man nodded a 'thanks' and then headed towards the elevators. Sandy watched him go, but her attention was soon called to a frantic woman looking for her son.

The man waltzed into a waiting elevator and pushed the '3' button on the control panel. The doors scraped shut and the elevator began to rise; soon after, the lift slowed and the doors opened. The man stepped out of the elevator into the corridor and checked a sign that was on the turquoise wall in-front of him, rooms 301-349 to the right. The man turned right and walked past the descending room numbers until he reached room 311. Without knocking, he opened the door and entered the room, letting the door shut behind him.

"Who's that," 8-Ball's voice asked from behind a curtain.

The man didn't answer, simply walked over to the bed and flung the curtain back to reveal 8-Ball laying on the bed, looking up at him.

"Yo homes!" 8-Ball was surprised, "I was wondering what happened to you. Man, whatch'you doing here, bro?"

"Heard you got downed man," the man replied, "came to see how you were."

"Damn man, y'know me, ain't nothing can get me down."

The man smiled at that, then his smiled turned into a frown, "so who did this? The triads mess with you?"

"The triads?" 8-Ball asked, confused, "nah man, I ain't never tangled with the triads."

"Then who? I heard you were capped in Chinatown."

"I was, but not by triads. You remember Chico?"

"That buster of a dealer who hung out in the north end?"

"That's him. He and a Suttemi soldier chased me down through Chinatown; I almost lost them when they got me. Fucking cowards didn't have the balls to finish me off, as soon as they dropped me, they were gone. Y'know what I'm sayin'?"

"Why?"

"Damn cookie, I don't know. I didn't even know Chico was tied up with the Suttemi brothers."

"No man, I mean why were they chasing you?"

8-Ball looked as if he was considering this question intensely, "I had seen Chico earlier that night, and he wanted me to get the family to give him some money, or spank, I'm not sure which. Well, I ain't close to the family no more, see? So I told him to fuck right off. About a half-hour later I saw him in a car with the Suttemi soldier, and they saw me too. You know the rest."

"Chico, huh?" the man said, and then he turned to go.

"Yo man," 8-Ball said, "where're ya goin'?"

"To look Chico up," answered the man, "you sit tight, I'll be back soon to get the cops off your back. Just get some rest."

"A'ight," 8-Ball said as the man continued towards the door. When the man was almost at the door, 8-Ball called after him, "Hey homes, I didn't catch your name."

"It's Speed," the man said, stopping in the doorway and looking back, "Claude Speed." Then he was gone.

8


	3. Alliances Revealed

_Chapter 3: Alliances Revealed_

Liberty City Police Chief Terry Gallo sat across from Mayor O'Donovan, a look of utter disbelief frozen on his face. The two men were seated at O'Donovan's desk, in his office at city hall. "You're _suspending_ me?" Gallo asked, finally.

The mayor said nothing; instead, he leaned back in his huge padded, black leather chair and shrugged a little, raising his eyebrows. Gallo snorted and looked up at the ceiling fan, which was rotating extremely slowly. The office walls were covered in a dark wood paneling, and filled with oil paintings of past mayors and other important historical figures. The carpet was a deep red colour, and the ceiling was painted to match. The only window in the room was a huge rectangular bay window behind the mayor's desk.

"Well," O'Donovan said, still leaning back in his chair, "not really, you're just being demoted temporarily."

The look of disbelief on Gallo's face transformed into an expression of confusion as he shifted his gaze back to the mayor.

"The city council," O'Donovan explained, "feels that you are not producing adequate results in the battle against gang violence in the city. Given the recent rise in gang activity in Portland, I am inclined to agree."

"The city council," frustration rose in Gallo's throat, which he struggled to suppress. O'Donovan nodded as he leaned forward and interlocked his fingers, resting them on his desk.

"Look Terry," O'Donovan said, "ever since the Portland L-train was attacked last Tuesday, the city has been overwhelmed by violent crimes. People are afraid to go to the grocery store for Christ's sake; you have failed to keep the crimes under control."

"Failed?" Gallo protested, "I'm doing the best I can with the stunted budget that _you_ approved!"

"I won't hear your excuses," O'Donovan raised his hand to silence Gallo, "our new police chief—a man from Carcer City—will be here on Monday morning, and on that time you will be moved to your new rank."

The look of disbelief returned to Gallo's face and he opened his mouth to speak, but the expression on O'Donovan's face told him not to.

"The new man will hold the rank," continued the mayor, "until the city is cleaned up or you prove competence. Now, I have a meeting to attend at noon, I trust that you can see yourself out."

Gallo's mouth hung open like a dead fish, a vacant look on his face. He sat like that for a moment, and then he closed his mouth, stood up and marched out of the office.

Claude sat in the green _Kuruma_ he had borrowed from Phil and checked the clip of his pistol, it was full. He popped the clip back into the handle of the gun and looked up; he was parked in between a couple of huge transport truck cabs in the parking lot of _Greasy Joe's Diner_ in Callahan Point. It hadn't been difficult to find the whereabouts of Chico; the dealer wasn't one to keep quiet about making tons of money. The evening after he had visited 8-Ball in the hospital, Claude had gone to a couple of the sex clubs in Portland's red light district and asked the bartenders and dancers if they had seen or heard anything about the dealer. The bartender in the second club he had gone into—he couldn't remember which one it was—had told Claude that Chico was in most nights, and that he was a regular with one of the girls. Claude had talked to the girl, who had on so much make-up that it was beginning to run underneath the hot dance lamps. 'He comes in most nights and gives me a couple hundred for a private dance,' she had said, 'one night, he tried to get me to go with him over to Greasy Joe's to meet his friends, said they meet every Saturday for lunch there.' That was all Claude had needed, he had gone back to Phil's for the night and in the morning, grabbed one of Phil's handguns and headed out for the diner.

Claude looked at the clock on the car's dash, twenty after one. He had been waiting there for about two hours, and at around ten after twelve two cars had pulled into the parking lot, a beige _Sentinel_ and a grey _Perennial_. Chico had gotten out of the Perennial, and three men Claude hadn't recognized had gotten out of the Sentinel. All four men had entered the diner together, and had been in ever since.

After Claude had gotten his revenge on Catalina, he had left Liberty with no plans to return. He hadn't gone back to his old home in Dillimore, in the western state of San Andreas because, for one, it was too far, and two, simply because there was nothing left for him there. Instead, when he had left Liberty City, Claude had gone to the next city over, Carcer City. In Carcer City, he had hooked up with a man who he had known only as Starkweather. Starkweather had given Claude an up-front payment to star in a movie of his, but Phil had called before filming could start, and Claude had returned to Liberty.

Claude didn't know why he thought that he would be free from the pull of the hundreds of enemies he had made in Liberty City. It was inevitable that the city would suck him back into the melee at some point, but Claude was surprised that it had been so soon. He told himself that it was a mistake to leave the city _unfinished_, to leave living enemies; 'during this visit,' he told himself, 'I won't make that mistake again.' His only true ally, the Yakuza, no longer had footing in Liberty City, so he was alone in his quest to purge Liberty of his enemies. First and foremost, he had to eradicate Joey Leone and the rest of the family. After that, he would see; he had to gather information on what Louie Suttemi's angle is, then judge whether or not he was an enemy. From the looks of things, however, the Suttemi's aren't too friendly. He had already taken care of the Columbians, who were his biggest foe, so the worst was over. He was an enemy to the triads, but they were in such confusion that he doubted they would care much about him right now. He had no real problems with either King Courtney and his Yardies or D-Ice and his Red Jacks, so he would deal with them in the proper manner when the time came. For now, though, he would concentrate on the Leone family and Louie Suttemi.

Claude had just finished deciding this course of action when he spotted Chico and the three men emerge from the diner. They talked together for a minute or two, then got in their respective vehicles and left the parking lot. Claude started his engine and crept out from between the transports to follow Chico's Perennial. Both Chico and the Sentinel with the three men turned left out of the diner, but the Sentinel took the next left towards downtown Portland. Chico kept going straight, past the Atlantic Quays, through Trenton, and past the Portland docks. Just past a Supra-Save, Chico turned right and drove up past Marco's Bistro, past the Leone Estate, and down into Hepburn Heights. He pulled into the apartment complex across the street from the Head Radio recording studio, parked his Perennial, and headed into the building. Claude eased his Kuruma into the Head Radio parking lot and walked across the street to the apartment complex. He considered climbing up the fire escape and sneaking in, but thought better of it. Chico had no reason to fear him, and it would be difficult to guess which apartment he was in.

Claude decided to simply walk around to the front door and look Chico up in the directory. The front door was unlocked, and there was no one at the reception desk, so Claude waltzed in and looked around. The entry way was repulsive, the cream coloured paint on the walls were peeling, the light blue carpet looked and smelled as if it hadn't been cleaned in a decade. On the left wall as Claude walked in, there was a directory listing all the residences of the building, so Claude stepped closer to find Chico's apartment number. He didn't know Chico's last name so it took a while to find him, but finally he found it, Chico Suez – apartment 1397.

Chico stepped out of his bathroom, pulled up his fly, and let out a contented sigh. Things were finally starting to pick up for him again. Louie Suttemi was supplying him with a good amount of spank to move, and he was pulling in a hefty amount of money. He walked into his kitchen and grabbed a glass from the cupboard, then filled it with ice from the freezer of his fridge. He took the glass into the living room and opened a wooden cabinet; selecting a drink. He settled for scotch, topped off his glass and settled into an armchair. He sat there, sipping his drink and watching the city go by out his window when there was a knock on the door, "Who's there?" he called. When no one answered, he let out a groan as he put his drink on an end table and got up. He sauntered over to the door and peered through the peephole; he saw no one, so he undid the chain and reached for the doorknob. As soon as he turned the doorknob halfway and the latch clicked, the door was kicked from the outside in with such force that it slammed into Chico's face and broke his nose, almost knocking him over. Chico stepped back and clutched his bleeding nose, stunned.

Claude used the moment of surprise he had gained and forced his way into the apartment, instantly grabbing Chico and hurling him to the floor.

"_What the fuck?_" Chico shouted.

Instead of answering, Claude pulled Chico's head up by the hair and punched him in the nose; hard, slamming his head back down again. Chico's nose was now bleeding so profusely that blood ran down his cheeks and neck, onto his chest, soaking the upper part of his shirt. He let out a sobbing moan and feebly tried to defend himself, but then lay still when he saw that Claude had shoved a gun in his face.

"Who the—?" Chico started.

"Shut the hell up!" Claude said as he pulled the hammer back on his gun, "you fucked up, pal."

"I don't even know who you are!"

"I'm a friend of 8-Ball, ring a bell? Just in case you forgot, 8-Ball is the man you shot in Chinatown over a couple grams of spank!"

"8-Ball…?" Chico said, "8-Ball's in bed with the family! He killed Cole!"

"_Liar!_" Claude shouted as he shoved the gun closer to Chico's face.

"It's true!" Chico insisted, "8-Ball's on his knees and Joey's got him sucking his d—"

"_Fuck you!_" Claude stepped back and fired two shots into Chico's blood soaked chest, then leaned forward and fired a third shot into his forehead.

Sandy sat at the front desk of Sweeney General Hospital, unhappily updating patient records. Just as she had been leaving yesterday night, the hospital manager had stopped her and told her to come in on the weekend. Her stomach had sunk as she said that she would, silently cursing the manager and all of his loved ones. So now, just after two in the afternoon on Saturday, when she should have been sunbathing under an umbrella on her roof with an ice cold beverage, Sandy was sitting at the front desk of Sweeney general, surrounded by gunshot victims and promiscuous women looking for something to cure their itch. 'As soon as my internship is over,' Sandy told herself, 'I am leaving this hell-hole of a city behind forever.' She sighed and looked up from the records, watching as people milled about the reception area, either waiting to hear news of injured loved ones or waiting for a doctor to become available. Then she saw the man, he waltzed into the hospital with no regard for the frenzied state of the reception area. She watched as the man headed straight across the room towards the elevators that led to the south wing. She watched as he hit the 'up' button and waited for an elevator to come, when one did, she watched as he got in and selected a floor, and she watched as the elevator's doors closed. Five minutes later, Sandy watched as the elevator's doors opened and the man marched directly towards her, towards the desk.

"Where is the occupant of room 311?" the man asked as soon as he reached the desk.

"He's been discharged," Sandy didn't even need to check her records, "his lawyer came in this morning to get him."

"His lawyer?" the man sounded confused.

"Yes, sir," Sandy answered, "a Mr. Cipriani."

"Cipriani," the man said the name with a hint of recognition in his voice.

Sandy studied the man's features, "is something wrong?"

"No," the man looked back at her, "thanks for your help."

"Anytime," Sandy said with a smile.

The man returned her smile, then turned and left.

Claude's head was swimming as he left Sweeney General's parking lot, 8-Ball and the Leone family? That wasn't right; 8-Ball was too smart to still be tied in with the family. However, if Toni Cipriani was acting as his lawyer to free 8-Ball from police supervision, then there must be a bridge between 8-Ball and the Leone family, no matter how much that bothered Claude. One thing nagged at Claude's thoughts as he drove across Callahan Bridge. It was something that 8-Ball had said the day before; '_I ain't close to the family no more, see?_' The words burned the back of Claude's mind all the way across the bridge. When Claude turned right off the bridge and headed through central Staunton Island; the words sank into Claude's throat and left a lump which seemed to cut off his breath. If 8-Ball was still working for the family, then he couldn't be trusted, and may even be an enemy. That thought troubled Claude further, he didn't want to have to look at 8-Ball as an enemy, but it seemed as if he had no choice.

Claude passed the Staunton Shopping Mall and a light rain began to fall, leaving tiny specks of water on the windshield. Claude stopped thinking about 8-Ball and flicked on the windshield wipers, eyeing a group of five or six Yardies who were standing in a group on the sidewalk just outside the mall. One of the Caribbean men looked over at Claude, solemnly watching him pass. As Claude neared Carson General Hospital, he took a left and drove down towards Liberty Memorial Coliseum. There was a small pack of gangsters dressed in red livery wandering along the street, openly brandishing 9mm pistols. 'Red Jacks,' Claude thought, recognizing the gang colours. He drove past the coliseum and across the East Staunton Expressway into Phil's complex.

As Claude eased the Kuruma through the gate into the interior of Phil's complex, the light rain strengthened into a deluge, and thunder rumbled overhead. He parked the car and jogged to the barracks, pulling his jacket up to protect his head from the rain. He hopped up the one step to the door of the barracks and ducked inside, shutting the door behind him. Phil was sitting on the wooden bench by the barrels of boomshine reading an _Ammu-Nation _weekly newsletter.

"Did you know," Phil said without looking up, "that America has the highest military budget _and_ the greatest opportunities for the average Joe?"

"Huh," Claude grunted his response.

"Anyone who refutes a connection between the two is a communist," Phil looked up, "so, any new intel gathered on your latest recon? How's 8-Ball?"

"Looks as if 8-Ball is in with the family," Claude replied, "Toni Cipriani went to the hospital as his lawyer."

"So, defection is it?" Phil mused, "a crime punishable by death."

"Maybe so, but before we act on 8-Ball, I want to find more about Louie Suttemi, and what he's _really_ doing in Liberty."

"Good call, commander. I have eyes and ears all over the city, we'll soon find out what everyone's motive is, even D-Ice's. I'm already sick of these fucking "gang-stars" stepping all over my part of the city."

"_You're_ connected?" Claude was genuinely surprised.

"Hell yeah," Phil said, "who do you take me for, some kind of radical conservative, military extremist, gun-crazy loner?"

Claude fought down a smile and shrugged. Phil snorted.

"Looks like it's you and me verses Liberty," Claude stated.

"Fuckin' A," Phil said, "bring 'em on!" Then he dipped into one of the big barrels with a ladle, filling up two glasses with the volatile, homemade liquor. "Now," he said, "let's have a drink!"


	4. A New Aliance Devised

_Chapter 4: A New Alliance Devised _

Mayor O'Donovan, Terry Gallo, and several members of the city council stood on the side of the helipad on top of Liberty City Police Headquarters on Staunton Island. They all had on raincoats and carried umbrellas to shield themselves from the light rain that had been falling all weekend. The throbbing sound of distant helicopter rotors penetrated the rain and fog, causing many of the council members to look up. Gallo sneered at this; they wouldn't be able to see the aircraft until it was damn well on top of them in this weather. In fact, Gallo found himself wondering what kind of pilot would be good enough—or dumb enough—to fly on a day like today. In addition to the rain and fog, a fairly strong wind blew, making the morning seem much colder than it really was.

Finally, the dark shape of a helicopter materialized above the helipad and descended towards Gallo and the others. The wind created by the aircraft's rotors sprayed rain in every direction and caught on umbrellas, causing their owners to struggle in an effort to regain control and close them. As this happened, the helicopter's pilot eased the aircraft directly down onto the large white _H_ in the center of the landing pad. As soon as the copter had touched down, the pilot cut the engine as the side door slid open. Four men hopped out, three dressed in standard blue police uniforms and one in a long beige trench-coat. The three officers stood back against the helicopter as the fourth man pulled up the collar on his coat and marched forward to greet the mayor and council members. Mayor O'Donovan stepped towards the man and outstretched his hand.

"Welcome to Liberty City, Mr. Schaffer," he said.

"Mayor O'Donovan," Schaffer returned, shaking the outstretched hand, "it's good to be here."

"Allow me to introduce Mr. Howard, Mr. Stallea, Mrs. Gregson, and Mr. Downing," O'Donovan gestured at the city council members, "all members of our city council."

"A pleasure to meet all of you," Schaffer said as he shook their hands, "I look forward to working with you and cleaning up this city."

"Welcome, Mr. Schaffer," Mrs. Gregson said.

Gallo watched as the introductions took place, a bitter feeling of resentment boiling in his mind. It was almost as if he had been set up to be kicked out of his job as Police Chief, the city council continually decreased the law enforcement budget, then removed him on the grounds that he wasn't effective enough in the fight against crime. The replacement they had found for his job was a man who had recently been cleared of corruption charges. Gallo eyed the three officers standing by the helicopter; something about them didn't _smell_ right. It was as if those faces and those uniforms didn't go together correctly.

"And over here," O'Donovan said, stepping towards Gallo, "is Terry Gallo, the man you'll be replacing."

"Ah, Mr. Gallo," Schaffer offered his hand, "don't worry, we'll soon have this city back on track."

Gallo shook the offered hand but said nothing, cautiously examining Schaffer's smile. There was something about the way it was formed, the way it created lines in his cheeks that said there was more to this man than an integral police chief.

O'Donovan suggested that they get out of the rain and inside to get to work straight away. Everyone had agreed, and filed down the metallic staircase to the roof entrance to the police headquarters. Even the helicopter pilot followed after the three officers.

Not far from Liberty City Police Headquarters, just as everyone had climbed down from the helipad, a red _Lobo_ pulled up to a red light just outside the Lips 106 FM building in central Staunton Island. The windows were rolled down about three inches, and a faint smoke wisped out of them. The distinct sound of reggae music seeped from the car, as well.

A group of three men, all dressed in red colours, crept up behind the car, which was filled with four unsuspecting yardies. When they had gotten close enough, the three men crouched behind the car; one of them removed a 9mm pistol from his jacket and pulled the slide back making a clicking noise. The other two men gripped wooden baseball bats tightly, mainly because the rain had made the handles slippery. The man with the gun looked around, there were no other cars stopped at the light, and only a few pedestrians were out in the wind and rain. When he was satisfied that no one would intervene, the gunman nodded to one of the men with a baseball bat. The man with the bat then got up and jogged around the driver's side of the car, leaned over and swung the bat down hard onto the car's windshield. The impact left a dent with a spider-web crack around it just below the driver's point of view, with one long crack extending all the way across the passenger's side of the windshield. There were startled shouts from inside the car, and the other two men jumped up and began attacking the car from behind. The two men with bats relentlessly wailed on the car's framework and windows, leaving many dents and two of the four side windows shattered. The gunman only had time for one shot, which he put through the back window of the car and into the head of the unfortunate yardie who was sitting behind the passenger seat.

Then the car took off, the three other yardies were not going to sit there and be executed. The driver floored it, and the wheels spun for a second on the wet asphalt before catching the traction they needed to move the car forward. The three men watched as the car sped away from them, straight through the intersection towards the north Staunton expressway. The pedestrians were screaming and shouting by this time, and while a few simply stood there, frozen with fear, the rest had run for it.

When the Lobo had gone about half-way down the next block, a fourth man dressed in red stepped out onto the street in front of the approaching car and raised a shotgun, quickly firing two shells directly into the car's driver. He then stepped back out of the way as the now driverless car veered to the left and smashed into a streetlight on the street's median. The two yardies who were still alive clambered out of the car and began to run off. The three men who had attacked the car had jogged up to where the car had crashed, and the man with the 9mm pistol aimed and fired at the legs of the yardie who had been in the backseat. He was rewarded with a scream as his bullets hit their mark, then he turned his aim to the other yardie, who was now quite a distance away.

"No!" The man with the shotgun shouted, "let him tell King Courtney what happened here today!"

The man with the pistol shrugged and lowered his gun, turning his attention to the yardie who was floundering about on the ground.

The hundreds of people in the skyscrapers surrounding the ambush site looked down from their office windows in disgust as a man was brutally beaten to death on the street directly below them.

Louie Suttemi stood in front of his office window, watching as the rain stopped and the clouds cleared up. Cole was dead; the Leone family was to blame without doubt. The funeral had been the day before, a Sunday, in the southwestern city of Las Venturas, where they were from. There was no body, as the cause of death was an explosion, and that was distressing. There was always a body at Suttemi funerals, which there were a lot of, considering the business the family was in. There had been a fairly large turn out to the funeral, better than Louie had anticipated. Their parents were dead, but uncles, aunts, cousins, half-siblings, nieces, nephews, grandparents (of which there were few), and family friends had shown up to pay their respects. Bernard Suttemi, the eldest family member at the funeral had led the mourners in prayer: that harm will come to those that brought harm to Cole. Louie had said _Amen_ as loud as anyone, and he felt the drive to be the one that answers the prayer.

Louie was a tall man, standing just over six feet, but he wasn't particularly built. The Suttemi family members were known to be 'tall and skinny', and Louie helped uphold that reputation well. He had dark features, a result of the family's Italian origin, and mainly wore dark coloured leisure suits. He wore one such suit now, a dark green one with an even darker red, almost crimson necktie.

He watched for a moment longer as a few sunrays penetrated the dissolving clouds, and then turned around to his desk. He had flown back to Liberty City directly after the funeral, arriving at Francis International very early in the morning. A car had been waiting for him at the airport which took him from Shoreside Vale to Callahan Point in Portland, where his apartment building was. He stood there now, on the eleventh floor, looking down at his desk. It was a plain, dark mahogany desk, which fitted the office well. The office was very plain, the carpet was a dark beige colour, and the walls were covered with dark wood paneling. The entrance to the office was opposite the desk, and the room's two windows were small, one behind the desk, and the other on the right wall as one enters the room. Louie looked up from his desk and gazed around the office, he would either have to redecorate, or find a new place. Since he planned to stay in Liberty for a while, he resolved to find a new place, but he pushed the thought to the back of his mind. He had more important things to worry about than the aesthetic appeal of his office, such as his takeover of Liberty City.

He sat down at his desk trying to decide the best course of action. The Leone family was his main problem at present, they declared war on him the minute they slaughtered Cole. The family had immense amounts of influence in Saint Marks, but suffered from poor leadership. Joseph Leone was young and naïve. Still, though, he was a formidable foe.

Louie was confident that he could whittle the Leone family's power down eventually, but he wanted to speed the process. Not only out of pure vengeance, but also so he could take over the rest of the city as soon as possible. He smiled at his own impatience, perhaps it was a weakness that he should consider eliminating. However, he wanted to earn Bernard's respect quickly, he resented still being called the 'kid' of the family. If he conquered and controlled an entire city, he wouldn't be a kid anymore. But how, how could he accelerate the decline of the Leone family?

He would need an ally; the answer to his own question came into his mind as if it had been put there by someone else. But _who_? The answer to that question did not come so easily. He briefly considered D-Ice and the Red Jacks; they had gained much power and now controlled all of Shoreside Vale, and would therefore be a valuable ally. However, they were all the way on the other side of the city, making them an _inconvenient_ ally. No, he would need someone handier. He toyed with the idea of contacting King Courtney, but soon dismissed it; the yardies had no interest in the Leone family, and would not risk a war with them.

Then it hit him, the _Triads_! Of course, they were perfect; he could offer to aid in their campaign to rebuild power in Portland in exchange for their aid in ousting Joey. The triads already had abhorrence towards the Leone family, they had only forgotten in their recent confusion. All Louie had to do was rekindle the hatred, and use it to his advantage.

That settled, Louie got up from his desk and headed down the block to Greasy Joe's for some lunch.

Claude stretched out on his cot, not quite awake yet. He rubbed his eyes, then opened them and looked around. Phil was nowhere in sight. He pulled himself up and sat on the edge of the cot, massaging his forehead with his right hand. His head pounded as if he had a bad hangover, but he hadn't been drinking. It was Phil's place, Claude told himself, it was unhealthy to reside there. He wondered how Phil could stand it, but the more he thought of Phil, the more it made sense. However, Claude could not stand it, and he needed to find a new place. As he thought about where, he got up and sauntered over to the bathroom stall on the other side of the barracks.

Phil wrenched open the barracks door to find Claude sitting on his cot eating an apple and reading the local newspaper, the _Liberty Tree_.

"What do you read that for?" Phil asked in a revolted tone, "its liberal bullshit!"

"Listen Phil," Claude ignored Phil's remark, "I'm moving over to my old place next to the park this afternoon. I can't stay here, it smells too bad."

"Huh…?" Phil sounded hurt, "moving?"

"Yeah, it's uh…, it's just that you seem really busy and I feel that I'm always in the way, y'know?"

"Oh," Phil considered that.

"Anyway," Claude changed the subject, "where were you this morning?"

"Checking sources," Phil cheered up a little, "got a couple leads."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, got some bad news for ya. 8-Ball was seen having dinner with Luigi Goterelli and Toni Cipriani last night at _Momma's_."

Claude frowned and leaned his head back.

"Also," Phil went on, "there's a new police chief in town, supposed to be real tough. Could prove to be a little trouble."

Phil wasn't sure Claude even heard that, he looked as if he was thinking about something completely different.

"So 8-Ball _is_ in with the family," Claude finally said.

That complicated matters, Claude had thought that 8-Ball had left the family at the same time as him, right after they had sunk that tanker. But, that was obviously not the case, and 8-Ball didn't want Claude to know that. So did that make 8-Ball an _enemy_? Claude had sworn to eliminate the Leone family, which he now knew included 8-Ball.

_I ain't close to the family no more, see?_ The words repeated themselves over and over in Claude's head, which was still throbbing with pain. 8-Ball, the man who had introduced Claude to Liberty, who had given him the start he had needed. The man who Claude had seen as his only _true_ friend in all the chaos that had been his quest to kill Catalina. His truest ally, now his sworn enemy.

"You gunna be alright?" Phil interrupted Claude's thoughts.

"Yeah," Claude swallowed uneasily, "I gotta go for a drive, can I take the car?"

"Affirmative," Phil answered, tossing Claude the keys.

By late in the afternoon, the sun shone down on Liberty City without a cloud in the sky to deter its heat and light. Many inhabitants of Liberty took advantage of the weather and headed outside, included in such people were Joey Leone, Luigi Goterelli, Toni Cipriani, and 8-Ball. The four men sat on the patio of the Leone estate in west Portland, enjoying a drink. Joey and Luigi both had on black suits, but had draped their jackets over the backs of their chairs because the day was turning out to be relatively warm. They had rolled up their shirt sleeves to just under the elbow, and had on black velvet vests over their shirts. Even without jackets, they were very elegantly dressed, and they sat there, leaning back in their lounge chairs with their feet up, sipping their drinks. Toni wore grey slacks and a purple jacket despite the heat, which didn't seem to bother him. 8-Ball, on the other hand, simply had on a pair of jeans and a white tank top, making him look a little out of place.

A waiter opened the glass French-style doors that led from the house to the patio and walked towards the four men. The sound of scratchy classical music, as if from an old, unkempt record player, filtered from the house to the patio. The waiter stopped a few feet from the four men and bowed slightly. He had on a white waist-apron over black slacks and a white shirt. He also sported a black velvet vest, but it wasn't as stylish as the ones worn by Joey or Luigi.

"Pardon, gentlemen," the waiter said softly, "dinner is served in the dining room."

"Very good," Joey said, "have it brought it out; we'll eat here tonight."

"Yes, sir," the waiter bowed again, and as he rose he turned to walk back into the house.

"So anyway," Joey said, "as I was sayin', there's this new broad in town. She's real dynamite; I've picked her up a couple times already."

"What's her name, Joey," Luigi asked.

"Fuck if _I_ know," Joey said, "I figure I'll find out one of the next times I drill her!"

Then Joey laughed, as if he had told some kind of hilarious joke. Luigi just shook his head. 8-Ball took a sip of his martini, amused. Luigi was pressuring Joey to find a wife and to stick with her. But Joey was too hot blooded; he preferred to have a flavor of the week. That thought made 8-Ball think of Misty, Joey's old favorite. He hadn't heard the details, but Joey had been drinking, and had asked Misty to meet him at his garage in Trenton. When she got there, Joey had beaten her to within an inch of her life. After she got out of the hospital, Misty had disappeared; 8-Ball never saw her again. It had probably been the stress of his father being killed and having to take over the family that had set him off. 8-Ball knew that Joey was the kind of person who would lash out violently whenever he was under any kind of emotional strain.

A few moments later a convoy of waiters emerged from the French-doors carrying multiple silver platters. They each set their platter down on the patio table and removed the lid. When the waiters had completed this task and returned to the house, a small feast sat on the patio table, there was salmon, pork, steamed vegetables, and fresh fruit.

"Now then," Joey said as he stood up and walked over to the table, "let's discuss what to do about this rat Louie Suttemi over dinner."

The three other men rose from their chairs and followed Joey to the patio table.

7


	5. A New Alliance Formed

_Chapter 5: A New Alliance Formed_

Claude looked around the room with a feeling of satisfaction. He was standing in the living room of his suite on the third floor of Park Plaza, a low-income apartment building next to Belleville Park in central Staunton Island. It was nice to be out of Phil's barracks and into a _real_ place to stay. Phil had been sad to see him go, however, displaying a level of emotion Claude had not thought him capable of. It had been a little odd, seeing Phil in such a condition over something as trivial as his roommate moving across town. But, Claude figured that after living alone for the better part of twenty years, he would get lonely too.

Claude took a deep breath, held it in for a second, and then let it out very slowly. The air seemed so clean, so pure. It really wasn't, as the air quality in Liberty City was rated the worst in the country, but compared to Phil's place, the air in his suite was fresh and unsullied. He had even gone out and bought a plug-in air freshener, just for that extra little touch.

He was standing in front of the entrance to his suite, looking into the room. It was far from luxurious, but it served his purposes well. The living room was decorated with a simple sky blue carpet and cream walls, with one window looking out onto the park across the street. A single beige sofa sat on one side of the room, and a small television on the other. There was an archway leading to the kitchen on the right side of the room, behind the sofa. The door way to the bedroom was beside the television on the left side of the room. The bathroom was only accessible through the bedroom, and contained only a toilet, sink, and shower, no bathtub.

Claude walked straight across the room to the window and looked over at Belleville Park. He remembered meeting an old cop there, Ray Machowski, who had been under investigation by internal affairs. It had been Ray who had introduced Claude to Phil, but Phil had never said much about him. This led Claude to believe that the two weren't as close as Ray made them out to be.

As Claude gazed over at the park, he couldn't help but notice its beauty. He had never really stopped and just took in the park's serenity, despite the dozens of times he had been through it. Claude felt himself relaxing, his tensions seemed to melt away a he focused on the brilliant green grass, the tall, impressive deciduous trees, and the peaceful pond. People strolled along the parks walking paths, gawking at flowers and chatting carelessly. A family was having a picnic at the pond's edge, and Claude stared at them. They were sprawled out on a large red and white checked blanket, eating and laughing joyously. There was a mother, a father, and three children, and all of them seemed to be having a wonderful time. The children got up to play tag and wade in the pond while the parents stretched out and enjoyed the tranquility of a sunny day in the park.

The longer Claude watched this family enjoy itself, the more he found himself wondering 'what if'. What if he had been born into a loving family, instead of an abusive one, would he now be lying in the park enjoying a picnic? What if his mother hadn't been an alcoholic? What if his father hadn't beaten on him? What if he hadn't been placed in that foster home? Most of all, what if he hadn't let that gold-digging bitch drag him out to Liberty? He presumed that he would still be in San Andreas, boosting cars and betting on horse races. But what if he could have turned himself around…

It was too late; Catalina had hauled him out to Liberty and drowned him in a sea of hellish nightmares. Even her death wasn't enough to save him from that. The best he could do now is clear a spot for himself at the bottom of that sea and settle in, because once you're in those waters, there is no way out.

If anyone had been looking at Claude through his third storey window, they would have seen a distinct tinge of sadness on his stern features.

Claude's phone rang, calling him away from the window and his thoughts of what could have been. He walked over to the phone and picked up the receiver, but said nothing.

"Meet me on the roof of warehouse twenty-four at Portland Docks in one hour," the voice on the other end of the line was muffled, but definitely belonged to a man. Before Claude could reply, there was a click, and then a dial tone.

As he set the receiver back on its cradle, Claude considered the possibility that this was an ambush. He had enemies in Liberty, there was no denying that, but which of them knew he was in the city? The Leone family knew, 8-Ball would have told them. It could be a Leone trap, in fact, that seemed a likely scenario. He was a marked man in the family, and had been even before he had killed Don Salvatore. That was partly why he had been so reckless as to assassinate the leader of the most powerful family in Liberty, that, and to earn the respect and trust of the Yakuza.

Louie Suttemi didn't even know who Claude was, let alone someone worth silencing. That was a detail that Claude intended to leave unaltered for as long as possible; the less there are of people who know him, the less there are of people who want to kill him.

King Courtney didn't care much about Claude; neither did D-Ice, so it probably wasn't either of them unless they were tying up loose ends. Claude doubted that, neither King Courtney nor D-Ice were organized enough to act so quickly, or even to act at all. They both had their hands full warring against each other.

On the other hand, Phil had told Claude that one of his contacts had some new intelligence on Louie Suttemi, and would contact him sometime today. That was a second likely scenario, and he decided to assume that that's who it was. Regardless, he walked into his bedroom and picked up his handgun that had been lying on the bedside table and shoved it into his jacket. He wasn't going to completely rule out the possibility that it was a Leone ambush, and resolved to head out early and stake-out the warehouse for a while. He took one last glance out the window on his way out, and then headed into the hall towards the elevator to the parking garage.

When the elevator reached the garage, the doors opened allowing Claude to step out and head for his car. Due to the fact that he had moved out of Phil's place, Claude had had to "borrow" someone else's car. It wasn't convenient to walk or take the bus over to Phil's when he needed a car, so he had taken a brown _Bobcat_ that he had found in Carson General Hospital's parking lot.

Claude waited as the garage door opened in response to his remote, and when it had opened completely, walked over to the Bobcat and hopped in. He started the engine with the wires under the steering wheel—he didn't have the proper keys—and backed out of the garage. When he was out of the garage, he pressed his remote to close the garage door and eased the pickup up onto the street.

Traffic was fairly heavy, it was lunch hour and people were out on their way to the beach or park or shopping mall. When Claude had left Liberty City, he hadn't missed any aspect of it, least of all the drivers. Driving in Liberty City was a serious affair; it seemed that traffic rules didn't apply to its residents. Not a day went by that wasn't witness to a serious automotive accident. Claude realized this, and kept his eyes peeled, looking for potential collision courses. One of the most dangerous (and most annoying) driving habits in the city was the blatant disregard for appropriate lanes. It seemed to Claude that drivers switched lanes on a whim, very abruptly and for no apparent reason. More than once Claude had been cruising along and expressway when an SUV had cut him off by switching lanes, causing him to have to slam on his brakes. Turn signals were not used, and Claude didn't even think the drivers checked for other traffic, they just did what they pleased.

However, even though the traffic was dense, Claude crossed the Callahan Bridge without incident. As he drove through Trenton and neared the docks, he became more alert, scouting for irregularities that might provide him with a clue as to the identity of the man who had called him. He saw none, however, until he reached the entrance to the actual docks. Sitting just inside of the entrance gates was a beige Sentinel, and a man wearing dark sunglasses sat in the driver's seat, looking vigilant. Claude knew that the Leone family was partial to silver cars, not beige, but he passed the entrance to the docks anyway; he didn't want to take any chances.

Claude parked his Bobcat in a nearby Supra-Save parking lot and walked back towards the docks, not to the entrance gates, but to the fence behind the cargo warehouses. To his surprise, there was a section of the chain-link fence that had been cut away. The opening was about two feet wide and four feet tall, just enough space for a person to squeeze through. Claude had planned to scale the fence, but upon closer examination of the barrier, it was clear that that would have been impossible. The fence was about thirteen to fifteen feet tall and was lined with barbed wire at the top. The openings in the chain-link were far too small for someone to fit the toe of a shoe in order to get the required footing to climb the fence. It was obvious that the fence had been designed to prevent unwanted passage.

Claude shrugged and pushed through the flap of fence that had been cut open. When he had untangled the sleeve of his jacket that had caught on a severed section of chain-link he straightened up and looked around. The fence had been cut directly behind the row of thirty odd cargo warehouses extending from the water inland. He glanced up and down the row of buildings, trying to judge which warehouse he was closest to. He was next to the seventeenth warehouse from the water, but which way were they numbered? Was he standing by warehouse seventeen or thirteen? Claude could figure out no other way to find out than by walking out to the front of the warehouses and checking their numbers.

There were alleyways in-between each warehouse that were about five feet wide, Claude cautiously made his way out to check the building numbers using one such alleyway. When he reached the end of the alleyway he peered out from behind the corner of a warehouse. To Claude's left, towards the water, he could see two beige Sentinels and one black Kuruma parked facing each other. In the middle of this parking arrangement Claude could see at least three men dressed in dark suits and two men in blue jumpsuits.

_That_ was unusual; there was almost never anyone so well-dressed at the docks, and the men in jumpsuits were not sailors, Claude was certain. He glanced up at the front of the closest warehouse; the number thirteen was painted above the door in large, industrial style white numbers. He looked up the warehouse on his right; the number twelve was painted above the door. That meant that the lowest numbers were farthest from the water, and warehouse twenty-four was eleven warehouses down the row of buildings towards the water, towards the mysterious men.

Claude retreated back down the alleyway and began walking behind the warehouses towards the water. He pressed his hand to the side of his jacket and felt the comforting handle of his gun; he had pretty much abandoned the idea that this was an ambush, surely his enemies would not be so blatant! However, he had become accustomed to surprises, and knowing his gun was ready for use was reassuring. As he approached the eleventh warehouse from where he had entered the docks he slowed his pace. Then he stopped to consider how he would get up to the roof, he presumed he would have to circle around front and enter the warehouse to find stairs. He was about to do this when something caught his eye on the back of the warehouse, it was a ladder. Claude almost laughed at his stupidity, he was about to expose his presence to the men by the water. He judged them to be in front of warehouse twenty-eight, but they would most certainly have seen him if he had tried to enter warehouse twenty-four through the front. He made a sweeping glance back at the other warehouses and noticed that they too, all had ladders leading to their roofs. Dumbfounded at his own failure to be observant, he shook his head, grabbed a rung on the ladder on warehouse twenty-four, and began to climb.

Despite the fact that he was twenty minutes early, Claude saw a man lying on his stomach near the far corner of the warehouse's roof. From what Claude could tell as he peered over the top of the ladder, the man was pointing a directional microphone in the direction of the gathering of men near the water. The man had did not move until he reached up and adjusted the massive earphones he was wearing, that convinced Claude that this was definitely not an ambush, and he relaxed.

Claude pulled himself up from the ladder to the roof and crouched down, then made his way carefully over to lay down by the man. The man was short; Claude could tell as he got closer to him, he wore khaki pants and an olive jacket. The man made no acknowledgment of Claude's presents until Claude was lying in the prone position beside him. Even then, however, the man didn't so much as look at Claude, but pointed at a note scrawled on a piece of scrap paper. It read simply:

Working with Phil. Put on earphones.

After reading the note, Claude picked up a huge pair of earphones that were sitting in front of him and fitted them to his head. Then the man gestured at a pair of binoculars, which Claude used to get a closer look at the men near the water. It took Claude a moment to focus the binoculars, but when the image was clear he studied the scene. His earlier observations had been correct, there were two Sentinels and one Kuruma; the two Sentinels parked facing the Kuruma. There were two men standing in front of the Sentinels dressed in dark suits, both tall and lanky. Another man, much shorter and dressed in a black suit, was standing in front of the Kuruma. Behind this man were two men in blue jumpsuits, one standing idly by the car, the other sitting on the hood. Claude knew instantly that the two men by the Kuruma were Triads, and suspected that the man in front of the Kuruma was Mau Chi, the most powerful Triad warlord in Liberty.

Claude felt his gut wrench up, just to be in proximity to Mau Chi was disturbing. As the Triads lost more and more power in the city, many of the warlords were either dropped or retired or left the city completely, but not Mau Chi. There is an old Chinese proverb that states, 'Keep your broken arm inside your sleeve.' That is exactly what Mau Chi was doing, even with the decaying power of his faction, he did not show weakness. In fact, it seemed that he was even more ruthless now that he sensed his ebbing power. Claude had heard stories, stories he did not know for certain were true, but he didn't doubt their fact. The stories were about Mau Chi and what he had done to maintain an iron-clad rule over Chinatown.

One such story, as Claude recalled, took place shortly after the destruction of Turtle Head Fishing Co. The proprietor of a small shop in Chinatown began making remarks on the loss of power by the Triads, and ceased to pay protection money to Mau Chi. Apparently, he had suspected that the Leone family would eradicate Mau Chi and the rest of the Triads from the city promptly. That had not been the case, however, as Mau Chi had consistently defended his power, by violence or politics. One night, the shop-owner walked into his house to find his wife and daughter decapitated and hanging upside down from the staircase banister. Their heads were not recovered, and three days later, the shop-owner's body popped up in the river separating Portland and Staunton Island. Mau Chi had not only killed the man for his insult, but he had made his last days alive as miserable as could be.

The man beside Claude started fiddling with the knobs on a small black box, presumably the directional microphone's controls, as both pairs of headphones were plugged into it. Up to this point, Claude had heard nothing through the enormous earphones he wore, but as the man beside him adjusted the knobs on the black box, Claude detected crackles of static, and then muffled voices through the earphones. Finally, the voices became clear, and Claude concentrated on what was being said in this meeting between Mau Chi and the two mysterious men.

Mau Chi's sharp voice entered Claude's ears via the headphones, "…tempting, but how can I be sure that you are worthy of the Triad's trust?"

"Mau Chi," one of the tall men returned, "what have I to gain by deceiving you? We have a common enemy and bear no ill wills against each other; there is no reason _not_ to work together." The man had put an unusual amount of emphasis on the word 'not', making it seem like he was reciting a memorized speech poorly.

Mau Chi said, "This is true enough, and I sense that you speak from the heart. I will confer with my council, but as of right now I can give no answer."

Even from his high perch and distance, Claude thought he could see a hint of irritation on the tall man's face through the binoculars. The man was going to get himself into trouble if he didn't learn to control his emotions.

"Very well," the man produced a small white card from his jacket and offered it to Mau Chi. After Mai Chi had taken the card the tall man awkwardly kept his hand extended, obviously expecting a hand shake. None came; Mau Chi simply held the card up in-between his index and middle finger on his right hand and nodded his head slightly. Then, he turned and spoke a few sharp words—words that Claude didn't understand—to his two confederates who then got into the Kuruma, followed by Mau Chi himself. The two other men waited until the Kuruma had pulled away and was out of sight before they moved or spoke.

Finally, the man who had not yet spoken said, "I don't like it, that prick can't be trusted."

"Agreed," the tall man said as he opened the driver's door on one of the Sentinels and slid in, "but…" His voice became muffled as he closed the car door and spoke through the open window.

The two men spoke for about twenty seconds longer, and then the second man got into the other Sentinel and both cars drove off. When they were out of sight, Claude put down the binoculars and took off the headphones; the man beside him did the same.

"Now," Claude said as he pushed himself up out of the prone position, "who are you?"

"Name's Cam Jones," the man answered as he, too, stood up. "I've known Phil since he was in Vice. I owed him a favor, so he asked me to come up here to pay that debt."

Cam had droopy features, making him look like he was always in a state of depression. He had graying brown hair and heavy stubble; he obviously cared little for personal appearance.

Claude offered his hand, "Claude Speed."

Cam shook Claude's hand but said nothing. Claude was surprised at the delicacy of Cam's hand, he had a very soft grip, but the pressure somehow seemed perfect. The two men released each other's hands.

"That was a meeting between Louie Suttemi and Mau Chi," Cam said. "You know these men?"

Claude nodded once.

"Louie wants Mau Chi to help him oust Joey Leone from Liberty," Cam explained, "in exchange for his revived power."

Claude considered that a smart move on Louie Suttemi's part, there was no doubt that Mau Chi would accept the offer. It seemed that Joey Leone's days in Liberty were very numbered indeed.

"Come on," Cam said, "help me get this stuff to my car, then we'll go see Phil."

Six days later Claude got news that Mau Chi had accepted Louie Suttemi's offer of alliance and they had been meeting regularly to plan their war.

8


	6. Sandy

_Chapter 6: Sandy_

Shoreside Vale, being Liberty City's residential district, didn't have much of a nightlife. In fact, the only nightclub in the Vale was _Spiral_, a swanky joint with live music and private dancing in the back. Naturally, D-Ice and his associates became the club's 'V.I.P.' patrons in short order as they began moving spank and bringing in the big money. Most nights, D-Ice could be found sitting in his regular booth, tucked away in the back corner of the club, with a couple of ladies. Tonight was no different; D-Ice sat in-between two women, an arm around each and a giant cigar protruding from his mouth. He held the cigar in place with his teeth while explaining to the two girls how they were the most beautiful female specimens he had ever had the pleasure of escorting out. The ladies giggled and blushed at his ramblings, neither of them seeing through his sleazy persona. D-Ice was so busy charming his two dates that he failed to notice when four men entered the club, three of them wearing police uniforms.

Gary Schaffer walked into the nightclub and looked around, unbuttoning the front of his beige trench coat. The club was a split-level design, the dance floor on the lower level and the bar and many small circular tables on the upper level. The walls of the club were painted a deep blue colour, and there were multiple lines of different coloured lights hanging from the ceiling. Occasionally, a burst of laser-lights would blast across the ceiling creating a unique effect that pleased the patrons of the club immensely. A stage sat at the back of the club on the lower level, opposite the dance floor from the entrance. There was a four man jazz band playing uppity songs, and they seemed a little out of place in the atmosphere of the club, but they were good enough that it didn't seem to matter. To the left of the stage on the upper level was a curtain door leading to the private dance rooms and on the right of the stage on the upper level was a row of booths. A sinister smile formed on Schaffer's lips as he spied D-Ice in the last booth; he motioned to his confederates and they all moved towards the booths.

D-Ice had his lips pressed into the neck of one of the ladies when the lights of the club were blocked out, annoyed, he glanced up.

"Hello, Damian," the silhouette of a man said.

"Yeah, do me a favor and fuck off a'ight?" D-Ice replied as he leaned back over to make out with the girl.

"Obviously you don't know who the fuck I am," the silhouette shot back as he leaned down and put his clenched fists on the table, "party's over, girls."

The two women looked confused and annoyed; four large men had just crashed their date with the most powerful man in Shoreside Vale.

"Yo, dickhead," D-Ice said as he pulled his arms from around the two ladies and reached into his jacket, "you're making a big mistake!"

"Is that so?" The silhouette said. Then, before D-Ice could react, the man lashed out, grabbed D-Ice by the back of the head and pulled forward, smashing his face onto the table. The two women screamed and slid out of the booth as fast as they could, then ran out of the club entirely. Before D-Ice knew it, his two dates were replaced by four large men, he was surrounded by cops. The man who had attacked D-Ice now sat next to him, one of his associates beside him and the other two on the opposite side, making escape for D-Ice virtually impossible. As D-Ice gently rubbed his eye, which was rapidly turning a sickening combination of dark purple and yellow, the man put his arm around him.

"Who…?" D-Ice glanced around with his one good eye.

"Gary Schaffer, pleased to make your acquaintance," the man said, "police chief of this fair city." Schaffer pulled out his badge on showed it to D-Ice. D-Ice said nothing, just looked helplessly at the badge, then at the officers.

"Now," Schaffer put his badge back onto his belt, "it's my job to make Liberty a nice, safe place to live. You're making my job difficult, aren't you?"

"You got nothin'," D-Ice sneered, "y'all may as well go write some parking tickets or something."

"What about three slaughtered Caribbean men in the streets of downtown last week; you wouldn't know anything about that would you?"

"No, so fuck off."

"Listen you gangster prick," Schaffer fished a sheet of paper from inside his trench coat and placed it on the table in front of D-Ice, "this is a search warrant for 1193 North Dutch Street; I know that warehouse is full of unprocessed spank. You have two choices here: either my pals and I can hop in our cars and head over to 1193 North Dutch right now, or you can listen to what I have to say."

D-Ice looked down at the warrant and swallowed hard, "I'm listening."

"Good to hear it," Schaffer said as he shoved the warrant back into his coat, "now, I'm willing to void this search warrant and forget about the warehouse packed with contraband."

"Very kind of ya," D-Ice's voice was dripping with sarcasm.

"Yeah," Schaffer chuckled, "I'm just that type of fella. All you have to do is make sure my memory stays as bad every month, you understand what I'm saying?"

"I think so."

"Nothing to it, really," Schaffer produced a small white card from his pocket, "the top number is how much and the bottom number is the account you will drop it in."

D-Ice took the card as the three officers got up. Schaffer gave D-Ice's shoulder a good squeeze, "remember," he said, "if I don't see that much in the account on the first of each month, you get nailed."

Then Schaffer slid out of the booth and walked out of the club, followed by the three officers.

That same night, Claude was cruising along the streets of Staunton Island looking for a bar. It had been a fairly uneventful week, the violence in Portland and Staunton Island had just been back-and-forth. He and Phil hadn't gathered any new information on Louie Suttemi and, as far as they knew, nothing had evolved from his war plans with the Triads. This lack of progress was frustrating for Claude, so he spent his nights taking in the nightlife of Liberty City and passing the time until the events in the city's crime underworld moved forward. He saw no way to speed their progression.

Normally, Claude would have hung out with Phil, but lately, Phil had been acting weirder and weirder. He had become extremely aggressive and reclusive; Claude suspected that it was the Boomshine that was causing the personality shift. Three nights ago he had gone to a bar with Phil in Portland, the eleven o'clock news was on the television over the bar and the reporter's topic was some military operation in a far away country. Phil became enraged and started yelling at the T.V. about lack of proper funding in some countries' military and the like. Then he hurled his half-full beer bottle at the T.V. with such force that it penetrated the screen; glass, beer, and sparks flew everywhere. When the barkeep protested, Phil put him in the hospital with two broken ribs and eight stitches in the scalp. It took all of Claude's strength and negotiating skills to get Phil out of that bar, dragging him to the door while he was screaming about respect for veterans. Since then, Claude vowed not to go out with Phil anymore, fearing not only for his safety, but also fearing prosecution for drunk and disorderly conduct.

Claude spotted a bar across the street from the _AMCO_ headquarters and pulled into an empty parking space on the side of the street. He hopped out of his Bobcat and walked over to the bar. There was a gigantic bouncer at the door who Claude estimated to be around six foot five and three hundred pounds. Claude nodded a greeting as he entered the bar and got nothing in response, he wasn't even sure the bouncer noticed him. Claude was surprised at how nice the bar was. It was fairly narrow, the bar on the right side, and tables on the left. There were no windows, light was provided by amber tinted lights handing from the ceiling. Included in the fixtures were ceiling fans, which circulated the air well. The floor was wooden planks, about half a foot wide each, and the lower half of the walls were covered in dark wood paneling, the top half in cream coloured wallpaper. On the walls hung framed pictures of old cars, trains, boats, and many more antique vehicles. Claude found himself classifying the place more as a pub than a bar.

There was one feature in the bar that Claude noticed right away, it was a girl. It was one of those girls that everyone notices, someone whose proportions are somehow perfect. She had nothing out of place, not too much clothes or make-up, just a perfect appearance. She had on a pair of tight jeans and a dark blue tank-top and a light blue cap. Her hair was dark blond and reached almost to her shoulders. She was sitting at a table with two other women with her back to the entrance, when she leaned forward the back of her shirt lifted a little revealing a tattoo of a sun on her lower back. Claude stopped staring and started towards the bar just as the girl turned her gaze to the entrance.

Claude had only been seated for a moment when the bartender stopped in-front on him and asked, "What'll it be, pal?"

"Just a beer," Claude replied.

"Domestic or Imported?"

"Domestic."

"You got it," the bartender said as he pulled out a bottle and snapped the cap off, sliding it over the bar to Claude.

"Thanks," Claude said as he glanced over his shoulder to where the girl had been sitting. The two other girls were there, but the blond one was gone. Shrugging, Claude turned around and took a sip of his beer. Before he knew it, the girl was two stools down from him, flagging down the bartender. When he arrived she ordered three gin and tonic, and then glanced over at Claude. As soon as he saw her face, Claude recognized the girl immediately, the receptionist at Sweeney general. He noticed a hint of recognition in her eyes, as well.

"How's your friend?" The girl asked as she moved to the stool next to Claude.

"Apparently, he's doing better than I had hoped," Claude replied.

The girl raised an eyebrow, obviously confused at Claude's choice of words.

"Claude Speed," Claude offered his hand before the confusion became awkward.

"Sandy Lynn," the girl took shook his hand.

"Here y'are," the bartender placed Sandy's three drinks on the bar.

"Thanks," Sandy said, taking the drinks. Then she turned to Claude, "hey, why don't you join my friends and I, we have an empty seat at our table."

"Yeah, alright," Claude said and he followed Sandy to her table.

Introductions were short and to the point, the two other girls, Jen and Mia, didn't seem too happy about Claude's presence. They refused to engage to deeply in conversation with him and even tried to ignore him completely by talking solely to Sandy. However, Sandy always found a way to involve Claude in the discussion, something Claude found very sweet. About twenty minutes after Claude had joined the table his beer was long since drained, the three girls had finished their drinks; Claude offered to head to the bar and pick up another round. When he got back to the table Jen and Mia were much friendlier and openly chatted with Claude. While they were both tremendously attractive brunettes, Claude found himself spending most of the conversation picking out small little faults in both Jen and Mia's appearance and noting the ways in which Sandy was preferable.

At eleven-thirty, after Claude had had three beers and the girls polished off four rounds each, Jen and Mia decided that it was time for them to go. To Claude's surprise, Sandy said that she would stay and talk a while longer. Her friends shrugged and half walked, half stumbled out of the bar and into the night.

As he conversed with Sandy, Claude felt a deep affection for her stirring within him, and sensed that Sandy was starting to feel the same way. There was never an awkward silence, they were always interested in what the other had to say, they were entirely compatible. At ten minutes after one in the morning, they were the only patrons of the bar sober enough to walk themselves out, which they did.

Sandy had no ride home, as she had arrived at the bar with Jen and Mia in Jen's car, which Jen had driven home almost two hours ago. Claude offered Sandy a ride home out of common courtesy, and Sandy accepted. It was a pleasant drive, the city was sleeping and it seemed that the gangs hadn't come out to play just yet. Sandy was busy directing Claude over the Callahan Bridge and into Portland. She lived on the outskirts of Chinatown in Portland in a decent looking apartment building.

"It's really been a pleasure, Sandy," Claude said as he pulled up in front of the building.

"I had a great time," Sandy was smiling, "y'know, I don't go into the hospital until the night shift tomorrow, if you wanna come in…" Her voice trailed off, leaving Claude flabbergasted, he couldn't believe that a girl like Sandy was inviting him into her home.

The next morning, when he woke up next to the beautiful blonde in her apartment, he still couldn't believe it.

Sandy took Claude to an out-of-the-way Chinese café for breakfast where they sat out on a sidewalk patio soaking up the morning sun. It was a brilliant day; the sky was a deep blue and carried no clouds to smudge its appearance. The morning was brisk, as summer was passing its seasonal tendencies over to autumn, but it was not cold or uncomfortable.

Claude was entirely derived from any sort of culture variation throughout his life, and as a result the menu at the café, although printed in English, may as well have been printed in mandarin. Sandy must have sensed his confusion because when the waiter came by she ordered for them both, simply assuring him, 'you'll like it.' Claude, relieved that he no longer had to try and decipher the alien dishes on the menu, took her word for it.

Sandy was extra cheerful, and openly spoke about herself while they were waiting for the food to arrive. As it turns out, Sandy had been born in Carcer City, but her family had moved to Liberty when she was young.

"My mother didn't feel comfortable in Carcer anymore," Sandy explained, "said it was getting to violent and run-down. My father didn't see it that way, and wanted to stay. He had a good job as a supervisor at the Maibatsu manufacturing plant, and saw no reason to leave that financial security behind. Well, my mother was known for her stubbornness, and the disagreement eventually led to a divorce, with my mother taking me and my older brother, Jeff, here to Liberty with full custody.

"We lived in suburbia out in the Vale and my mother got a job as an assistant manager at Liberty Memorial Coliseum. I was starting Junior High and Jeff was a senior, making friends for me was tough, but he seemed to fit right in. We made trips back to Carcer about four times a year to visit my dad, which was nice. We spent Christmas there usually, but when Jeff graduated he joined the air force and was overseas for three straight years.

"At the end of Jeff's third year in the service, when I was midway through grade ten, my dad was walking out of a Supra-Save when three bullets ripped through his body. He was an innocent victim in a spontaneous gunfight between rival gangs in the grocery store parking lot. He died two days later in the hospital, and the funeral was the next week, for which Jeff returned home to attend.

"Three years later in my first year of university, my mother died of heart complications. We hadn't known she had been having difficulties, and she was probably to stubborn with to talk herself into going to the doctors to get it looked at. This was what decided me on a career in medicine, I want to encourage people to get regular check-ups and help as many of them as possible. I did six years of university and got my first internship at Sweeney General, which goes until next spring."

Sandy sat there, an empty look on her face, staring right past Claude and out into space.

Claude was astounded, not knowing what to say, finally he just muttered, "Sandy…"

"It's okay," Sandy snapped back into reality, "Jeff has taken perfect care of me since our mother died, helped put me through university and has shown me immense support; I owe him so much. He's back in service right now, overseas. I think he has leave this winter, I look forward to seeing him again."

The waiter returned with two plates heaped with food and placed one in-front of Sandy, and the other in-front of Claude. He then placed two pairs of chopsticks down and told them to enjoy in a very high, sharp, and fast voice with a thick accent. After the waiter had left the table, Claude picked up his chopsticks and fumbled with great effort in an attempt to use them correctly. Sandy could hardly contain her laughter, and finally Claude just used two hands to maneuver the chopsticks and shoved a hunk of food into his mouth, it was delicious.

In a small health clinic on the outskirts of Liberty City, one of the patients was waking up. It was a woman, her eyes fluttered and her lips moved very slowly as consciousness returned to her after several months in a coma. Her eyelids sluggishly slid open all the way revealing gorgeous dark brown eyes that silently screamed one word throughout the dark clinic, _vengeance_!


	7. Outbreak

_Chapter 7: Outbreak_

Phil sat in his monstrous olive green _Barracks OL_, which he had pulled over to the side of the road, staring at the bank. Phil saw the blank, grey face of the building as if it was staring back at him. The bank was on the ground floor of a twenty-eight storey building, and was accessible from the street via two massive golden revolving doors. People pushed their way in and out of the doors, often leaning forward in order to provide the strength required to rotate the enormous glass panels. Phil felt that this bank was the most elegant thing he had ever seen, and that it was inviting him inside. The graceful, beckoning motion of the enormous golden doors were a gesture to Phil, it was almost painful for him to watch.

Suddenly, the warm, welcoming motion of the bank's doors transformed into a cold, nagging irritation to Phil's senses. Phil was taken aback at this instantaneous change; he squinted to better focus on the doors.

"You're a fraud," the doors said in a sharp, metallic voice.

Phil leaned in until his nose was almost touching the windshield of his truck, surprised.

"You have been hiding yourself from the world," continued the doors as a man in a dark business suit pushed through them, "no one knows who you _really_ are."

Phil was angered and irritated by this, "shut up! _You_ don't know me!"

The doors simply laughed a cold, metallic, penetrating, screeching laugh.

Phil gunned the engine of his truck and pulled out into traffic, causing a _Blista_ to swerve onto the left side of the road and collide head on with an oncoming _Esperanto_. Ignoring the commotion, Phil roared off toward his compound, his eyes filled with rage.

Mau Chi sat in a small wooden chair in front of Louie Suttemi's mahogany desk, his feet firmly planted on the floor and his torso erect. Despite his small stature, he presented a formidably intimidating image. Louie wasn't phased, however, and offered Mau Chi a glass of rye from his liquor cabinet. Mau Chi refused, so Louie poured a single glass for himself before sitting down in his massive, padded leather chair, on the opposite side of his desk from Mau Chi. There was an awkward silence as Louie studied Mau Chi and the Triad simply stared into space.

Their war plans were set; it had taken two weeks of constant planning, but tonight was the night action would replace deliberations. It had come to Louie's attention that Luigi Goterelli would be meeting Toni Cipriani at _Sex Club Seven_ later that night, and Louie had jumped on the opportunity. He had conversed with Mau Chi, who seemed keen on the idea of initiating the first strike on the Leone Family. It wasn't a particularly elaborate plan, Louie's men were going to act as the artillery, waiting outside on the street for Luigi and Toni to emerge, and the Triads were going to stake out the back, in case Louie's men failed to deliver. Louie smiled at that thought, he knew his men wouldn't fall into error on this; they were trained and trained hard. It was, however, nice to know that the Triads would be there.

"So," Louie said before the silence became unsociable, "are you and your soldiers satisfied with the first step of our little coup?"

"We are satisfied," Mau Chi remained motionless, "but there can be no mistakes. There is everything to lose here. If you fail to eliminate Luigi, I will be forced to reconsider this relationship on account of your incompetence."

Louie's smile drooped; he knew that Mau Chi was telling him that he was a dead man if the events of tonight didn't unfold to Mau Chi's liking. "I assure you, nothing of the sort will happen, my men are undeniably prepared for every possible situation."

"I sincerely hope that you are not overestimating the power of yourself, and underestimating the power of our enemy. The Leone Family has not held control of Portland for so long simply because no one of your ability has come along to contest it."

"Forgive me, Mau Chi," Louie said, sipping his rye, "there was no offence intended in my comment, my only aim was to reassure you of the solidity of our plans tonight."

"Very well," Mau Chi stood up, "I must go prepare for tonight, I suggest you do the same." He was staring at the glass of rye in Louie's hand.

"Of course," Louie stood up too, but before he had the chance to show Mau Chi out, his guest turned on his heel and walked to the door, leaving Louie awkwardly trying to maneuver around his desk. When Mau Chi was gone, Louie took a deep breath and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, he was covered in a cold, clammy sweat.

8-Ball sat in his _Mule _at a traffic light in _Atlantic Quays_ admiring the beauty of the sun fighting its way through the few scattered clouds in the sky. He watched as the light seemed to bounce off the reddening leaves on the side of the road; as much as he didn't want to acknowledge it, winter was coming once more. The light turned from red to a faded green, and 8-Ball pulled his truck forward towards the Portland Docks.

Joey Leone and Toni Cipriani waited in the dark garage; the atmosphere was as solemn as an ancient mausoleum. Neither spoke, both simply waited. Finally, the huge aluminum door began to scrape open, revealing the menacing radiator of 8-Ball's _Mule_. Joey motioned to Toni, and they both moved out of the way, allowing 8-Ball to ease the truck into the garage. When the vehicle was completely inside the garage, 8-Ball cut the motor and tapped a remote on the visor of his _Mule_, closing the garage's door. He then jumped out of the truck and walked over to where Joey and Toni stood waiting, a look of glee on his face.

Toni grew impatient with 8-Ball's gloating, "What is it? Why bring us down here for Christ's sake?"

8-Ball grinned even wider and flung open the back of his truck, "I got one!"

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

8-Ball continued grinning and jerked his head towards the back of the _Mule_, "see for yourself."

Joey and Toni craned their necks to get a better view into the truck, their vision fighting to penetrate the darkness. Lying on one side on the floor of the _Mule_ was a man, his hands and feet were bound and his mouth gagged.

"Who's this?" Joey asked calmly.

"Dunno, man," 8-Ball answered, "I think he's in with Louie Suttemi."

"Let's find out!" Joey said, jumping into the truck. 8-Ball followed and they both hoisted the man up, bringing him to door of the truck.

Toni wasn't as nonchalant about the situation, "you mean you called us down here because you _think_ you found a Suttemi soldier? What the hell were yo—"

"Man," 8-Ball didn't let him finish, "shut the fuck up and give us a hand here!"

Toni snorted his disapproval, but moved to the back of the truck and reached up to receive the terrified man. When Toni, 8-Ball, and Joey had the man on the floor of the garage, they removed the gag in his mouth and stared down at him. The man simply lay on the floor in a puddle of self-pity, averting his eyes from his captors. Toni looked up from the man, a look of impatience on his face. "Come on, you piece of shit!" Toni threw a foot into the man's stomach, "speak up!"

The man moaned and curled up into a tight ball. "I don't know what you people want," he said finally.

Joey squatted down and grabbed the man's head by his hair, pulling his face close, "We want you to talk and talk fast," he said softly but firmly, "we want to know if you're sleeping with that rat bastard Suttemi, and if we don't find out, you'll be sleeping in the harbor within the hour." Then Joey released the man's head and stood up, letting him absorb the threat. After a moment of silence, Joey told 8-Ball and Toni, "Pick him up."

Toni and 8-Ball grabbed the man and propped him up, one of them on either side of the bound captive, supporting him. Without speaking, Joey produced a 9mm from his jacket, pulled back the slide and aimed it at the man's face.

"Wait, _wait_!" The man protested, "I'll tell you what I know."

Claude was more worried than ever about Phil. Intermingled with that worriment was a feeling of submissive guilt creating a sensation almost of nausea. His head spun as he sped his brown _Bobcat_ through streets of Staunton Island on his way to Phil's compound.

The worriment was a result of Phil's recent dark temperament and delusional demeanor, as if something was nagging at the back of the man's mind but couldn't—for some conscious reason—penetrate itself out into the open. The closest thing that Claude could associate Phil's characteristics with was a nervous failing due to stress. But it was darker than that; there was a real sense of internal rage that was outwardly directed. Phil was searching for a scapegoat, as everyone at some point does, upon which to thrust all the blame for his worldly and perhaps spiritual failings. Most people, however, when searching for a scapegoat, will not be tempted to undertake measures of extreme violence, Phil was another story. Thus Claude worried about Phil.

The guilt that Claude was feeling was a direct result of social neglect. A combination of meeting Sandy and Phil's change in personality—from light and hysterical to dark and brooding—led to a cessation of Claude's daily visits to Phil's compound. On top of that, Phil was still sour over Claude's decision to vacate himself from the compound. Claude had replaced Phil with Sandy as his primary companion in Liberty City and consequently felt guilty.

The sky was dark not only due to the absence of the sun, but also with heavy clouds that had moved in throughout that afternoon and threatened the city with a torrential downpour. It was just past ten p.m. and as Claude had been dropping Sandy off for her graveyard shift at Sweeney General Phil had paged him. No message had following Phil's number on the tiny rectangular screen of Claude's pager, which simply meant that Phil was waiting at his compound for Claude to drop by. And it was in response to this digital signal that Claude now raced through the light night traffic of Liberty City's corrupt business district.

The first thing Claude noticed as he entered Phil's compound was the horrific condition of the man's _Barracks OL_. Claude's stomach wrenched into a knot. The massive green truck looked as a face that was scrunching up its nose in absolute disgust—the enormous engine cover was bent up in the middle creating a tent effect. The engine itself was in such disarray that Claude could not imagine how Phil got it back to the compound without a tow. There was an immense metallic scar stretching from just behind the driver's door, which hung loosely open, to just above the rear tire well. After staring in bewhilderment for a moment, Claude rushed into the barracks.

"Phil? _Phil_?" Claude's frantic cries were answered by nothing but silence. Frustrated, he fumbled for the chain that hung from the light bulb in the center of the barracks. Finally feeling the cool brush of linked metal against the back of his outstretched hand, Claude gripped and yanked the chain, filling the room with light.

Phil was not in the barracks, much to Claude's disappointment, he sighed submissively. There was something that caught Claude's eye on the wooden bench by the barrels of Boomshine, it was a white piece of scrap paper. Hurriedly, Claude moved to the bench and retrieved the paper, excitement rising in his chest as he read the crudely written but succinct note. It read: S C 7 1:30. Claude crumpled the note and tossed it aside before dashing out of the barracks, past the totaled _Barracks OL_, and into his _Bobcat_.

Isaac's entire body frothed with ecstasy. He felt an immense joy that Louie had the trust and faith in him to consign him with the double assassination of Luigi Goterelli and Toni Cipriani. There awaited him a great honor of becoming a made man within the Suttemi family upon his success. He thought of the potential associated with being made and waves of great liberation eased over his body from top to bottom. Yet, he still suffered a mental breakwater, preventing the waves from emanating their full effect upon Isaac's psychological state. A good thing, he thought. A killer need not feel totally free from the elements, he must feel part of the environment—as malleable as nature, as sturdy and determined as the unconscious. The mental breakwater Isaac suffered was, predictably, anxiety of failure. There was no future for failures in Liberty City, or anywhere when one is in such a business, for that matter.

Midnight. Luigi arrived at _Sex Club Seven_ as planned via an elegant black stretch limousine. Onlookers raised their eyebrows signifying the impressiveness of the scene. The gaudy lights of the sex club were returned to the hundred-thousand watt neon signs as they were reflected in the limo's sleek siding. The limo, a result of this, seemed to radiate its own luminance. Without a sound of protest from the brakes the limo slid to a stop in front of the club. A man with jet black hair sporting a black suit and dark sunglasses—a man that could just as easily be a secret service agent rather than a Leone bodyguard—stepped forward from his position just outside the entrance of the club to meet the limo. He opened the back door of the luxurious car as if it was what he was born to do, and then two of the shiniest black shoes anyone had ever seen swung out of the car and onto the street.

Toni was already out onto the veranda of the restaurant and still he heard the nagging voice of his mother pierce the still of the night air. "_You make sure to remind that Luigi that you are not just some pretty boy to be passed up on every promotion that comes up now. You deserve something better, Antonio, some type of managerial position, something with a little authority. Be a man about it for Christ's sake, son, I'm sick of having to explain to the girls at the bridge club why my grown boy is nothing but an errand boy to some knuckleheads with no ambition!_"

"Alright, ma, shit!" Toni was pissed. He checked his watch, five after twelve, late.

"_There ya go again with that 'yes, ma' nonsense! I know you just say that to shut me up! Well, don't bother coming back here if you're still just Joey and Luigi's small time lackey, you got that?_"

Toni left _Momma's Restaurant_ in a sour mood, making his way through Saint Mark's on foot towards _Sex Club Seven_.

One o'clock; Claude watched and waited from his perch on the roof of the building across the street from _Sex Club Seven_. He found himself thrown back a few months, he remembered Don Salvatore marching out of the club towards his car looking like he owned the world. At the time, he assumed Claude to be dead, blown apart with the rigged _Infernus_ to which he had lured the poor lad. What he did _not_ assume was that he had been betrayed by his fiery fornicator, and Claude had been saved from death. What he never could have imagined was that Claude had been perched on a roof just above him, a high precision rifle aimed directly at his head. Claude doubted that Salvatore had even heard the shot, and guessed that he was still in his dream world as the full metal jacket round passed through his skull.

The amount of blood spilt on this particular section of sidewalk in the red light district of Liberty City was almost unfathomable. On some nights, nights to which Claude had been witness—and sometimes even responsible, the slightly sloped street literally channeled the blood into a slow creeping river in its gutters. The street ran red with blood. Claude grimaced as he acknowledged that if Phil's intelligence was correct, another such river was about to find genesis. This river would signify the end of the stagnant state of the balance of power in Liberty, this river would take with it all those too dumb or too weak to fight its powerful current. Claude noted with grim realization that he, too, was included in the potential victims of this river. He had survived it once, however, and he intended to do it again.

Claude studied the glittering entrance to _Sex Club Seven_, people filtered in and out, some were rejected by the doormen. Most were men in cheap suits, the labourers of Portland, Claude guessed, their wives and children abed. Once and a while a taxi would roll past, no other cars occupied any space on the street.

One thirty-three; a black _Stretch_ pulled up in front of the club, the same car, Claude observed, that had brought Luigi to the club an hour and a half ago. The front doors of the club were pushed open from the inside and three men in dark suits and sunglasses stepped out, keeping the door open behind them.

Somewhere on a not-to-distant street Claude heard the screeching of tires straining to retain traction as they were forced to turn a corner too fast.

Luigi and Toni exited the club together, side by side. They were chatting easily; Luigi threw his head back and released a hearty guffaw, slapping Toni on the back. They stopped moving in the middle of the sidewalk and turned to face each other. The men in dark suits glanced around in a nervous manner. Claude watched intently.

The sound of a large engine being gunned rumbled from up the street, still, Luigi and Toni continued to talk amiably on the sidewalk. Then Claude sensed motion from down the street towards Hepburn Heights, he glanced over and thought he saw five or six men darting across the street into the courtyard of the apartment complex located at the bottom of the sloping street. Then the car appeared. It was a beige _Sentinel_ that came screeching around the corner at the top of the street and raced towards _Sex Club Seven_. The passenger window was down, and Claude watched as a man squirmed his body out and sat on the windowsill so that he was leaning over the car's roof, facing the side of the street on which the club was located. The man then reached back into the car and pulled out an Uzi.

In the few short seconds before the car reached _Sex Club Seven_, Claude saw that Luigi and Toni had stopped talking; both had turned to watch the car. The three men in dark suits had moved up to form a line just behind the two high ranking Leone officials. Claude thought they might be holding shotguns. Then it was happening, the beige car slowed slightly as it passed the limo in front of the club and the man with the Uzi opened fire. Too late, Luigi and Toni had ducked behind the limo, shielding them from the deadly rain of bullets that fell their way. The three bodyguards indeed held shotguns, and they fired relentlessly into the attacking car. One went down like a stone as a multitude of hollow points thudded into his chest.

Then it was over. The driver of the _Sentinel_ had obviously been killed, the car swerved out of control. The man with the Uzi barley made it back into the car as it lifted up on two wheels and wrapped around a telephone pole. People were screaming, men were shouting. The two Leone bodyguards still alive ran after the attack car, presumably to make sure everyone in it was dead. Luigi jumped up from behind the limo and shouted something at them, Claude couldn't hear the words exactly, but he thought Luigi was ordering them back. One of the bodyguards stopped running, turned back towards the club and seemed to hesitate. The other man kept running down the slope towards the totaled car.

The unmistakable rattle of assault rifle fire penetrated all other sounds of confusion and terror of the scene, and the roof of the black _Stretch_ was suddenly splattered with blood. Luigi had a look of sickly surprise frozen on his face, then he seemed to lean against the limo and finally, he slumped to the ground. Claude couldn't believe his eyes, where had the rifle fire come from? The bodyguard who had stopped and turned was also utterly flabbergasted, he seemed cemented to the asphalt dumbly looking back at the limo. More rifle fire. Claude frantically searched for a shooter, his eyes coming to rest on the wreck of the _Sentinel_. The Leone bodyguard who had approached the car was sprawled out on the street, his jacket open and white shirt stained red. A circular pool of red began to form underneath the freshly made corpse, and five men appeared from the apartment building at the bottom of the sloping street, about twenty yards from the scene of the car wreck. More men were dashing out of the alley leading behind _Sex Club Seven_. Six men, eleven total, Claude counted.

The limo took off, its back tires spewing up dust as the driver floored it, longing to get himself and Toni away from the death they would experience if they remained at the club a split second longer. All Claude could think about was that the limo _had_ to be bulletproof because as it made its getaway, it repelled no less than a hundred rounds. As each bullet hit the metal of the limo it created a flurry of brilliant sparks, making the scene seem that much brighter, if that was possible. And there lay Luigi Goterelli, half on, half off the sidewalk, his elegant clothing now stained with blood and dirt. The look of surprise still hung on his face.

The six men shouted after the limo as it pulled out of sight, and that was when Claude realized that they were Triads. All six of them quickly released the spent magazines from their guns—most carried Uzis, only one carried an AK-47—and popped fresh ones in their place. They then turned and moved towards the lone remaining Leone bodyguard who was still in the middle of the street, trying to comprehend what was happening. The group of five men charged up the slope towards the doomed bodyguard as well. The bodyguard stood between the two groups of bloodthirsty Triads, and in that last moment realization dawned on him—he should have been a banker. His body was torn apart by a hail of bullets from both sides and he did sort of a pirouette before gravity claimed his corpse.

The two groups of Triads looked at each other over the dead Leone bodyguard for a moment, and then they joined forces to create one large task force. They all watched the street, waited for the inevitable to arrive. Claude was surprised, he had expected the Triads to take off after the hit, but apparently they had other orders. The would-be assassin was forgotten, left to his own devices in the twisted metal of the totaled car, if he was even still alive. Then the inevitable arrived—two grey _Mafia Sentinels_. They screeched to a halt at the top of the slope and eight men in dark suits hopped out and, using their car doors for cover much like the police, opened fire on the group of waiting Triads. Some of the Leone men were armed with shotguns, some with 9mms. One of them ran over to Luigi's body and began dragging it back to one of the _Mafia Sentinels_ amid the Triad's returning fire.

Claude turned away. Luigi Goterelli gunned down like some lowlife hoodlum? Well, perhaps not, this was obviously a premeditated hit, if one that went awry. But still, Luigi was second in command in the Leone family, who would take his place at Joey's right hand? Presumably it would be Toni Cipriani, but it all depended on how Joey absorbed the loss of his friend and mentor. Time would tell, Claude told himself, time would tell.

Claude trotted down the metallic stairs into the alley behind the building to his waiting _Bobcat_. Claude started the engine of his truck and flew out onto the street, eager to be away from the massacre ensuing behind him.

Amid the gunfire and shouting, the blood of the fallen began to trickle down the sloping street's gutters as if it were honey. The velocity of the blood increased as the quantity also increased. The river of blood had been created, and it had already claimed its first few victims.


	8. Aftermath

_Chapter 8: Aftermath_

It was four-thirty in the morning and Isaac's head was spinning. He was stumbling through Hepburn Heights nursing a broken arm and trying to figure out why he was still alive. He had spent the last couple hours in the most shameful of places: a dumpster in an alley behind an apartment building just a two blocks from the scene of the night's events. If the full story is to be told, he had been passed out in that dumpster fully resigned to never wake up. As fate would have it, however, he did wake up, though this turn of events brought no comfort to Isaac. He knew he would not live to see another sunset, his being in a state of life now only meant that his time of death would be much more unpleasant than passing rather quietly away in a dumpster.

It was freezing, Isaac suddenly noticed, and he hurried his steps toward Harwood while pulling his suit jacket about him. His good arm made a painful attempt to support the broken arm. The biting cold of the early fall morning seemed to stab the wound, causing an exaggeration of agony; the colour ran from Isaac's face. He shuffled past a dock worker on his way to work who, upon seeing Isaac, grimaced. Isaac presented a thoroughly disturbing image; his face was covered in dried blood from a cut in his scalp, his cheap Italian suit was in tatters, and to top it all off he stank of refuse. Isaac ignored the continuous gawking of the scattered passer-bys and forced his way up the steep hill in Harwood, making his way to his apartment.

The events of the night seemed to be a blur, but to be fair much of it probably actually _was_ a blur. Isaac remembered leaning out of the _Perennial_ as it passed Luigi and Toni. He remembered emptying his Uzi in their direction. Had he hit them? Maybe…no, wait, he couldn't remember for sure. He definitely saw them go down. He prayed to God that he had gotten them. If he had, there was a slight chance that he would live. He certainly remembered the Leone soldiers unleashing their shotguns into the _Perennial_, but after that things went black. The next thing he knew he was worming his way out of the twisted metal of the wreck. He mustered all the energy he could and made a mad dash away from the deadly gunfight. He made it to the dumpster, in which he had passed out.

Then Isaac was furious. Why the fuck had Louie given them a _Perennial_ for Christ's sake? An armoured _Sentinel_ would have saved them and he knew that Louie had at least one. That prick, Isaac thought, he rides around Portland in an armoured car and couldn't bring himself to devote such a resource to a high-profile job. As he crested the hill and crossed the street he envisioned himself wringing the neck of Louie Suttemi. That though brought a crude smirk to his face as he entered his apartment building and made his way up the stairs to the second floor. The smirk was still there as he slid the key into his doorknob and walked into his dark living room. The smirk remained on Isaac's face as the bullet from an unheard shot made by an unseen assassin entered the back of his head.

One of the best things about Sandy was her acceptance of the unexpected. She was not the least bit put off when Claude knocked on her door at a quarter after two in the morning. "Just couldn't wait to see me, hunh?" She joked as she let Claude in and embraced him. Then she took a step back, sensing that Claude was deep in thought and not quite all there. She made a face, "what's wrong?"

Claude looked at her, and as he did the look of contemplation that had defined his features melted into a look of sublime admiration. Sandy was wearing tight pink panties and a form fitting blue tank-top. Her elegant breasts looked graceful in the shadows of her front hallway. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a high ponytail and held in place by a pink scrunchie. She stood with her hands on her hips impatiently awaiting an answer, the weight of her athletic body placed pretentiously on one leg. Both of her eyebrows were raised. Claude knew that she must have been asleep just minutes earlier, but still, she looked striking. He thought that she would look sexy in any outfit, in any situation. He pictured her in denim overalls in a hayfield pitching hay into a 1930s era pickup truck and still she looked sexy. Finally he said, "nothing," then he smiled, adding, "…now."

Sandy snorted at Claude's cheesiness before turning on her heel and walking into her kitchen. Claude followed, his eyes drawn to Sandy's perfectly formed backside. Sandy's kitchen was in fact quite modern. It had a sleek white tile floor contrasted with jet black cabinets and grey marble counters. From the single window Claude could just see the Callahan Bridge between neighbouring apartment buildings. Sandy flicked on the track lights on the room filled with a warm light, "you want some coffee or something?" She asked.

"No thanks," Claude replied, "I need to make a call, can I use your phone?"

"Of course," Sandy picked up a wireless handset from its cradle on the counter and handed it to Claude, "when are you going to get a cell phone?"

"When I get around to it," Claude leaned in for a kiss, "thanks babe."

"I'm going back to bed," Sandy announced after they had kissed, "will you be long?"

"Shouldn't be, but don't wait up."

"If you say so," Sandy pranced out of the kitchen. Claude watched her go feeling a pang of guilt. She was so innocent, and he was so much the opposite. It wasn't right for him to be involved with someone who had such a good heart. It made him sick. She seemed to like him, though, and she was certainly smart enough to leave the minute she sensed things getting too dangerous or complicated. She was his escape, whenever Claude's life got too heavy, there was Sandy. It was selfish, he knew, and not entirely fair to Sandy, but he couldn't help himself. He'd never forgive himself if he let such a smart, beautiful woman slip through his fingers. He frowned and dialed Phil's number on Sandy's phone.

"…Yeah?" Phil's raspy, wheezing voice sounded worse than normal.

"Phil, you alright, man?" Claude asked.

"He-e-ey buddy!" Phil ignored the question, "some serious shit's gone down, huh?"

"So you know? About Luigi, I mean?"

"Yeah, I do. Fucker had it…" Phil broke into a terrible coughing fit. When he recovered he continued, "…he had it coming. Where you at, anyway?"

"I'm at a payphone," Claude lied, "in Trenton. So what does this mean, Phil? What happens next?"

"Whaddaya mean what happens next!? War happens! The Triads and Louie Suttemi against Joey Leone in full blown, all out war! _Yeeeeeehaw_!!!"

Claude couldn't help but smile, Phil was still Phil after all. "What's _our_ next move, though?"

"Don't worry about that one bit, I've got it all sorted out. Just swing by here tomorrow, right?"

"Right, Phil. See you tomorrow, then."

"Roger," then Phil hung up.

Claude replaced the phone to its cradle, suddenly realizing how tired he was. He crept into Sandy's bedroom and undressed, trying not to wake her. He slipped into the covers next to Sandy and let out a peaceful sigh before sliding into unconsciousness.

Around the time Claude was talking to Phil, Louie Suttemi was pacing back and forth in front of his office window. When his desk telephone rang, he turned and dashed to answer, "Did we get them? Tell me we got them!"

The man on the other end of the line was one of Louie's lieutenants, "Luigi Goterelli is dead. Toni Cipriani lives."

Louie felt a mixture of relief and disappointment, "what happened? Why didn't we get Toni?"

"They were expecting us, boss. They knew we were coming."

"How in the hell would they know that?"

"I don't know, but I'll find out," the lieutenant paused, "…and boss?"

"What?"

"It wasn't us, it was the Triads. Isaac fucked up."

At that exact moment there was a knock on Louie's office door. Louie's face turned ashen as he hung up the phone. "Who's there?" He called, dumbly.

No response, just another series of knocks. It didn't matter; Louie knew exactly who was on the other side of the door: it was Mau Chi. Louie's stomach churned, and he suddenly felt the urge to vomit. He imagined his desk covered in half-digested spaghetti. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. He brought his hands up and massaged his temples, had tonight been a failure? The more important of the two targets—Luigi—_had_ been eliminated, after all. However, given Mau Chi's reputation and threatening demeanor prior to the hit, Louie expected him to be quite displeased.

Rather than being displeased, however, Louie found Mau Chi to be in quite high spirits when he entered the room. Mau Chi explained that Luigi and several ranking Leone bodyguards had been killed, and though Louie's men had not performed terrifically, they had provided the diversion necessary for the Triads to attack. Not one Triad was lost; this was why Mau Chi was in a good mood. As for Toni Cipriani, Mau Chi explained to Louie that there was no need to worry. A new development had occurred giving the Triads a new, extremely powerful ally on the other side of the law. It was only a matter of time before Toni and even Joey were eliminated.

At thee o'clock that same morning the bullet riddled _Stretch_ carrying Toni Cipriani passed through the gates of the Leone estate. As it chugged up the dirt road towards the mansion, Toni was sitting in the rear of the limo, sweating profusely. He wasn't sure what to think. For one, his close friend and essential ally was dead, and that shattered his own illusion of immortality that many in mob life inevitably obtain. Second, he was wary of how Joey would take the news. Joey was the head of the Leone family, but Luigi had been the one holding it all together, making things run smoothly. Toni worried that Joey would be lost without Luigi. Finally, who else was there? It was just him and Joey, and _that_ was a disturbing thought. The family was in serious trouble, and for the first time in a long time Toni thought about leaving Liberty. But where would he go? What would he do? No, there was nothing else for him anywhere—he belonged here.

The brakes of the _Stretch_ squealed in protest as the drive brought it to a halt at the bottom of the huge outdoor staircase leading up onto the seaside veranda of the mansion. Toni stepped out of the limo into the cold night air and looked up at the sky, there were no stars and the moon was not in sight. He shuddered and made his way up the stairs and into the mansion.

8-Ball was sitting on one of the many elegant red leather couches in the sitting room of the Leone mansion, beer in hand, when Toni burst through the large French doors from the veranda. He looked up, his forearms resting on his knees and his hands limp in between his legs, his right hand barely clutching the bottle of beer. Toni stopped just inside the room and returned his gaze; both men remained silent, reluctant to be the first to suggest confronting Joey.

"He already knows, yo," 8-Ball finally said.

Toni nodded, then took a deep breath and stepped towards Joey's study. 8-Ball didn't follow; instead, he just turned his head to watch as Toni walked past him. When Toni was out of sight, he raised the bottle of beer to his lips and took a long, nervous swallow.

The heavy, carved oak door of Joey's study was closed, and Toni thought it might as well have a _Keep Out_ sign hung on the doorknob. He closed his eyes and took a moment to compose himself, then clenched his right hand into a fist and brought it up in order to knock on the door. He opened his eyes, paused for another moment, then rapped out three sharp knocks. After about thirty seconds the door opened a crack and one of Joey's bodyguards peered out, assessing the visitor. Upon seeing that the guest was Toni, and stepped back and opened the door the rest of the way, allowing Toni into the study. The guard closed the door after Toni had entered the room.

Joey Leone looked pathetic. He was slumped in the fancy red leather armchair behind his dark mahogany desk. Joey's suit jacket rested on the back of the chair, and the white shirt he was wearing was extremely wrinkly and open at the neck, revealing a few dark chest hairs. He had on an untied black bowtie, the two ends of which hung limply about his neck. The only light in the room came from a single desk lamp—an antique brass one with a green shade—giving the room an eerie hue. On the center of the desk, directly in front of Joey, sat a sizeable pile of _spank_ in which there was a face sized imprint. When Toni looked closer at Joey, he could see bits of _spank_ peppered his face around his nose and mouth.

Toni turned both his hands out as if he were about to hug someone, "Joey…" He began.

At the sound of Toni's voice, Joey snapped back into reality and locked eyes with the older man. He raised his arm and pointed a finger at Toni, "You!" He barked, almost shouting, "shut the fuck up! How… Tell me, how could this happen!?"

Toni was taken aback, a little irritated at this treatment, he relaxed his hands, "well…" he feebly started. _You gotta stand up for yourself in this world, Antonio! Otherwise you'll never be nothing! _Toni's mother's voice echoed inside his head, causing him to regain composure. "I'll tell you what happened!" Toni matched Joey's tone, "you had Luigi and I hold the meeting tonight even after that motherfucker 8-Ball bagged talked. He said there'd be a drive-by, but he didn't say nothing about an army of Triad soldiers! You should have rescheduled the meeting right then and there, Joey, I— "

"Enough!" Joey jumped to his feet and slammed his fists onto the desk, "how dare you come into my office and disrespect me in such a way! Luigi is dead, goddamn it, so it's just you and me now. If we are to come through this, we need to work together."

Toni was surprised at the rationality espoused by Joey, though he didn't betray this surprise in his expression, which remained firm.

"You're the new family _Consigliere_," Joey went on, "it's what the old man would have wanted. Luigi, too. But I'm not convinced you've got the balls to carry the responsibility. Prove to me that you are capable by taking care of that rat bastard Isaac. Get this done, then we'll talk further."

Toni eyed Joey for a moment before simply nodding and moving toward the door. As the guard opened the door for Toni, Joey called after him, "And Toni," he said curtly, "never forget who's in charge here. Ever." Toni stopped but didn't turn around, and then he snorted and left the room.

As Toni reentered the sitting room of the Leone mansion, he noticed that 8-Ball was no longer there. He saw him a moment later, however, out on the veranda leaning on the railing looking out to sea. "What are you doing out here?" Toni asked, "it's freezing."

8-Ball turned to face Toni, his expression unmistakably one of sadness, "damn Toni, Luigi…"

"I know, I know," Toni put his arm around 8-Ball's broad shoulders, "I got a job for you, though. It's gotta be done tonight, are you up for it?"

8-Ball looked directly into Toni's eyes, "hell yes."


End file.
